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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29187768">Redamancy [Adultrio/Reader]</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErwinsRightEyebrow/pseuds/ErwinsRightEyebrow'>ErwinsRightEyebrow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunter X Hunter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Victorian, Drama, F/M, Fanfiction, Love Triangles, Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:07:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>60,929</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29187768</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErwinsRightEyebrow/pseuds/ErwinsRightEyebrow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a twenty-six-year-old French immigrant becomes a sensation in British literature with her debut novel, she feels the new pressure to pound out her next book. A patron and friend, Kikyo invites Mila LaPlante to stay with her son, Illumi, while she focuses on her next novel. Through her stay, Mila meets Hisoka Moreaux, famous opera singer, and Chrollo Lucilfer, a charming American journalist and women's rights activist. All Mila wants is to finish her book and continue on with her life--but perhaps that's not what she'll get.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hisoka (Hunter x Hunter)/Reader, Illumi Zoldyck/Reader, Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Hunter x Hunter</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Uncle Vanya</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Ces routes sont affreuses..." Mila murmured, sitting straight. The roads are awful. She could feel the cart jumping and bumping around, and it had only gotten worse as they entered the countryside, where there were no roads, just dirt paths.</p><p>Her carriage partner, Kikyo, nodded. "Indeed, they are. Rarely does one drive so far from town, you see, so all the roads carry is the weather."</p><p>"Madame Kikyo, I must ask... how much longer do we have to drive?"</p><p>"My, we're but ten minutes away." She pointed, out the window of the horse-drawn carriage, to an old pond across the way. "There's a lovely spot for a picnic if the walk bothers you none. Illumi used to take me out there when I demanded fresh air, and we would sit and watch the swans swim past."</p><p>Mila replied, "I will keep that in mind. But I do not anticipate your son taking me out to any ponds."</p><p>"He will if you beg him enough. My son is very weak-willed with the likes of both myself and beautiful, young women. He'll see how you've grown since you were youths, and it will be all he can do not to court you then."</p><p>"I can not imagine Monsieur Zoldyck holding affections for me." She laughed, raising her gloved hand to cover her mouth. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks at the memory of her and Illumi's relationship, which had been a secret from his mother.</p><p>"Ah, but on the contrary—Illumi always had eyes for you when you were working for us."</p><p>Mila said, "Surely, no. I was but a laundry maid."</p><p>"Don't sell yourself short, darling. You also brought in the tea." A chuckle rose from Kikyo's dark red lips. She glanced from underneath her black hat out the window. A field enclosed by a white wooden fence and a stable house came into view. "We have arrived, it would seem."</p><p>"Finally. I thought if I were to sit any longer, I may perish."</p><p>"That's that French drama in you," commented Kikyo.</p><p>The carriage pulled around a circular drive and came to a halt in front of a large early-Victorian manor. A servant was busy dusting off the patio in front of the red brick building, his broom sweeping the grey stones fitted together with cement. Mila looked out of the window on Kikyo's side and sighed, her eyes trailing across the grand manor. The grey curb roofs shone with a gloss of drying rainwater over them. The corners of the manor each had turrets fitted with tall spires, and every window was a bay decorated with intricate stone crowning. She saw, growing from behind a few trees, a glass atrium with a few windows open at the top. The bushes in front of the manor were well trimmed, and each was rounded with a small bed of red and white flowers.</p><p>There was a strange sadness to the building, despite its grandeur. Mila noticed that the windows were dark, lacking a single candle to light them and relying only on the gray daylight. The flowers were dry and wilting, though not to the point at which they'd lost their color. Even the boy dusting the drive wore a somber, tired look on his face—as if he had just returned from a funeral. She rolled her shoulders back gently, attempting to shake her nerves off, and fixed her hat.</p><p>The carriage driver came around and opened the door for them. Kikyo exited first, and then Mila. She took the hand of the driver, an older gentleman who wore a thick, white mustache and a beat-up bowler that could have used a quick shining. He gave her a smile and a tilt of his hat as he aided her from the carriage then took to removing the women's luggage from the back.</p><p>Kikyo tapped the shoulder of the boy who had been dusting the patio area. "Young man, I'd like you to go fetch Mr. Zoldyck; tell him his mother and her guest have arrived."</p><p>Mila watched the boy scurry off and laughed, remembering the scrambling excitement of her own days as a house worker. She used to work for the Zoldycks in her teenage years, when she was new to Britain, and so rarely did the family ever allow visitors at their country house where she was stationed. Whenever a visitor—often a business man or a cousin—did come along, there was that rush through the whole staff, the shock that someone actually popped in. Everyone would scamper around the manor and make themselves as productive as possible, making sure each ornament was dusted—even in the rooms that would remain untouched. Mila saw the excitement in how the boy ran; his arms were braced at his sides, and his spine was stiff, like he was worried about appearing slouched in front of a guest.</p><p>Moments later, a staff member came out and retrieved the bags which the driver had set on the patio. He came quickly, giving short nods to Kikyo and Mila before rushing back inside. He moved as if full of fear of being scolded, which put Mila on edge. She remembered the stern nature of a young Illumi, and that combined with the demeanor of the staff worried Mila that she was walking into virtual servitude. After all, her business staying at Illumi's manor was simply to write, so perhaps Illumi would admonish her for appearing idle. How irrational a fear, she eventually thought. If she was there to work, then so she would work; otherwise, she was a guest, and guests were not charged with the obligations of labor.</p><p>Mila and Kikyo were brought into the manor by the head butler, a man who introduced himself as Pierre. The dim interior of the foyer was accented by the dark oak staircase and glossy, cream-colored floor tiles. Elegant chandeliers with glowing crystals hung from the ceilings, and portraits some unknown historical figures. Pierre guided the women one room over, to a grand carpeted area, presumably the lounge. The walls were a sandy yellow, a color which complimented the red upholstery and sheer curtains. A black grand piano sat in the back of the room, tucked right beside a turret with windows covering its outside. Mila wished she had the talent to walk over and play a sonnet, but she only knew one three-note hymn which her priest had taught her back home and nothing more than that. Not too impressive, she knew.</p><p>Upon noticing how Kikyo just made herself at home, Mila decided to take a seat on the leather love seat. As she sat, she pulled her gloves off and dragged her hands across the lap of her tea-green dress. The simple fabric and design of her dress made her feel out of place, and for a moment she wished that she had worn one of the more formal dresses which Kikyo had bought for her. Certainly, Kikyo was dressed formally (though overt elegance was her norm), donning a dark red dress made almost entirely of rich silk; the cuffs and collar were cotton lace, designed in incredibly complicated patterns and swirls. Black buttons trailed down from her collar to the tight, black waistband just above her hips, and her black hat sat on her head proudly, with its netting and fake flowers sewn tightly to the band.</p><p>"My apologies for keeping you waiting," a smooth voice with a plummy British accent stated. "Mother, how nice to see you. I was unaware that you would be accompanying Miss LaPlante."</p><p>Kikyo stood and hugged her son, planting a kiss on his cheek. "I figured it was only polite, considering that she is a guest whom I'd invited into your home."</p><p>"Shall you be staying long?"</p><p>"Ah, I see you're already trying to get rid of me."</p><p>"Of course not, Mother. I am merely curious."</p><p>Kikyo nodded. "Well, you will be glad to know that I plan to stay until Tuesday; I have committed to tea with Mrs. Wharton and a matinee of Uncle Vanya."</p><p>"Remind me to inform the staff of the duration of your stay." Illumi looked over at Mila. He stopped, a glint of astonishment flashing in his eyes—but only for a fleeting moment. "Is this our guest, Mother?"</p><p>Mila stood immediately, patting down her skirt once again. She extended her hand and, trying to mask her thick French accent, said, "Hello, Monsieur Zoldyck. Thank you for allowing me to stay with you."</p><p>"Remind me your name—and, please, skip the dreadful British accent. It does you no good." He shook her hand gently, his eyes lingering upon her face and her hair with a tenderness that had not been present moments ago.</p><p>"Oh, uh... Yes, Monsieur. Mila LaPlante," she said, careful not to withhold her natural French accent.</p><p>He nodded. "Miss LaPlante... That does ring a bell, for sure—and not just for the fact that you were a member of my father's staff."</p><p>Mila wondered whether he was pretending not to remember her or if she really had been that insignificant to him. Of course, it would not have been an issue—as she was a grown woman, and a failed teenage romance was of no matter to her now. But, out of curiosity, she asked herself if Illumi recalled the times they spent together over the summers during which Illumi stayed at the family's country home. Did he recall even a single thing—even her name? It seemed not, and perhaps it did bother Mila a slight bit, but not enough for her to linger in bitterness.</p><p>Kikyo stepped in. "I told you, darling: she's a writer."</p><p>"A. R. LaPlante is my... how do you say...?" She sighed. "What is the English word for mon nom de plume?"</p><p>"Your pen name," Illumi answered. "I see now. Yes, A. R. LaPlante—I read your debut just last month. A stellar read, in my opinion," he said with a straight face which made Mila wonder if he was being sincere at all.</p><p>She smiled. "Thank you very much. You do not look like the type of man interested in Romantic literature."</p><p>"While Realism is the popular movement as of current, I do enjoy a good Romantic novel on occasion. It cleanses my palate."</p><p>"I agree."</p><p>"Would either of you two desire a cup of tea or some refreshments? I believe there are some biscuits in the kitchen."</p><p>Kikyo said, "Orange Spice sounds excellent at the moment."</p><p>"I would like a cup of Earl Grey, please." Mila took a seat back on the love seat.</p><p>Nodding, Illumi ordered in the butler and requested the tea and a tray of cookies. He removed his suit jacket, hanging it over the piano stool, and took a seat on the sofa adjacent to Mila. She watched him as he sat, noticing his slender build and the way his suspenders pressed against his chest. He had grown quite a bit since she had last seen him, back before she quit her job at the Zoldyck country home when she was nineteen. His face was older and more tired, of course—wearing a faint shadow of a beard and mustache, and the angle in his jaw had strengthened. His hair was just as sleek and black as it had always been, but he now wore it in a tight bun at the back of his head. Mila wondered how long it was when he didn't wear it up.</p><p>"Miss LaPlante... How do you suppose the manor will do for your endeavors? Mother has informed me that you have been in need of a place to spark inspiration. Does my abode appear suitable?"</p><p>Mila looked about the room with wide eyes. "Why, yes, I do believe so. I appreciate the mix of downtown elegance and the warmth of the country."</p><p>"That pleases me. I much enjoyed your novel, so I would like to see what my home aids in producing."</p><p>She chuckled. "This makes two of us."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My pronouns are they/them.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Ellis Bell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>How perfect was it that, upon waking up, Mila could be greeted by that golden sunlight that climbed just over the treeline? Her bed, you see, was a plushy queen placed on the opposite side of the room from a large bay window. The window faced directly east, and though a maid closed its curtains just before nightfall, Mila made sure to open them just as she went to bed—knowing with what a sight she would be met the next morning.</p><p>Life on Illumi's estate, according to Mila's record of the past few days after Kikyo's departure, seemed to be perfectly calm. In the mornings, she could walk into her private bathroom and take a hot bath, allowing herself to soak for twenty minutes under the warm scents of cinnamon, lavender, rose, or whatever else she may have desired at any given moment. She wrapped herself in towels made of Egyptian cotton and robes made of Chinese silk, and she could request that tea, toast with jam, poached eggs, and an assortment of fruit be brought to her room—so long as she was able to catch a the maid as she passed.</p><p>Thereafter, she was free to do whatever she so desired. There was a small indoor pool with a walk-out onto the patio, so it wouldn't have been impossible for Mila to sunbathe for hours. There were the stables and fourteen acres of land to accompany them, so if Mila desired to ride horseback for an afternoon, she surely could have. There was a music room, the library, the billiards room, an atrium—and even a wine-tasting room, for goodness's sake. The maid had informed Mila that rarely was the latter put to good use, besides when Illumi was entertaining formal guests, but the fact that it even existed was quite a surprise to Mila. She was a young woman who was used to life in two-room apartments (shared with a roommate or two, of course) and with little to no spare time. If she, at the moment plagued with writer's block, had nothing to do and nowhere to be, it was overwhelming to realize that there were a dozen different activities for her to manifest her boredom.</p><p>She took to the library first, deciding that the best way to cure her writer's block was to read other writers. Maybe she could find what she needed through tedious criticism—or, perhaps, simply reading something other-worldly would help her think up a new idea or prompt. During the first few days of her stay at Zoldyck household, her time was spent mainly with Kikyo, who loved to sit and chat for hours over a pot of tea. As much as Mila loved Kikyo, she found the woman insufferable after a good three hours of conversation—and, now that she had left, Mila found herself able to relax and enjoy her leisure time.</p><p>The manor turned out not to be as foreboding as Mila had initially believed; it was dark, yes, but the servants seemed kind. Additionally , there existed an air of calm contrasting with the energy of downtown London to which Mila had grown so accustomed. As throughout the majority of Illumi's home, the library's walls were made mainly of finely-polished dark wood. It glistened with a white fuzz under any sunlight that happened upon it and smelled faintly of peppermint. Along the curved outside wall, there were numerous arched windows covered with sheer white curtains. They provided a clear view of the courtyard, which was surrounded by a pillared cloister. The wooden floors were sleek, and as Mila entered she noticed the butler moving books about the shelves. A stack of books in hand, he turned, pausing his work, and gave her a smile.</p><p>"Good day to you, Miss LaPlante. How are you this fine morning?"</p><p>"I am well, thank you. And you?"</p><p>He looked shocked suddenly. "Oh, well—I'm doing quite good—indeed, ma'am, yes. Thank you for asking. Name's Felix, by the way. Are you looking for anything in particular?"</p><p>"Well, I am not sure. Monsieur Zoldyck has quite the collection..." She looked about the room, gazing upon the dozens of tall shelves within the library. It seemed that a single floor was not enough to carry the multitude of books which Illumi owned, so a spiral staircase leading to an indoor balcony homed what looked to be another dozen bookshelves. Even in the community library back home in Lyon, which Mila frequented when she was a teenager, didn't even own as many books as there were in this home library.</p><p>"Yes, ma'am, he does. Well, I'm not much a literary myself, but I know Master Zoldyck's system—where he keeps every book, you know." He shrugged, adjusting the books in his hands to highlight their presence. "Give me a name and I'll find it for you—right, real quick, ma'am."</p><p>She nodded. "I believe I will look around myself. I have no specific books in mind, you see. But thank you, Felix."</p><p>"May I recommend a title?"</p><p>Both Felix and Mila looked up towards the spiral staircase and saw Illumi descending, a sport jacket draped over one arm and a leather-bound journal in his other hand. He wore a well-fitting white dress shirt underneath a low-cut waistcoat that fit his frame nicely. He stepped to the bottom of the stairs and bowed slightly as a greeting for Mila and, more casually, nodded towards Felix.</p><p>"Felix, would you mind taking these both to my room?" he said, handing the butler his journal and sport coat.</p><p>"Why, not at all, sir. T'would be my pleasure—yes, sir."</p><p>"Thank you.</p><p>"Yes, sir," Felix replied, setting the last books in his hand onto a tab. He bowed towards Illumi. "Master Zoldyck, Miss LaPlante." And with that, he exited quietly.</p><p>Mila turned towards Illumi and smiled graciously, patting down the skirt of her dress. She wore one of the ones which Kikyo had chosen for her today: a creme-white, linen dress with a gold band high around the waist and a tight, lace collar at the top. The sleeves were tight at her wrists but trumpeted above that, and the material was a little stuffy for a warm summer day such as today. However, being indoors made it considerably more bearable for Mila. Her main concern was whether or not people could tell she was lacking a corset. Kikyo had bought them for her, but upon trying one on for the first time since she was sixteen, Mila realized that she would much rather prioritize comfort—especially when considering that she was a chubbier woman than most, amnd corsets were more commonly made for women of a substantially more petite build.</p><p>Mila brushed her hands over her waist and watched—both carefully and subtly— as Illumi rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were pale, full of veins, and well-built. She could have watched his hands work at straightening his sleeve cuffs all day...</p><p>"Like I said: would you like me to make a recommendation? I'm sure I have a dozen things that would suit your taste within the whole of my library."</p><p>She nodded. "How kind of you. Thank you, Monsieur Zoldyck."</p><p>"Of course." He gestured her up the stairs and followed. "Have you read Wuthering Heights by Ellis Bell?"</p><p>"I have not."</p><p>Illumi, upon reaching the top of the stairs, knelt before one of the mahogany bookshelves built into the wall and began to wave his finger in search of the aforementioned book. "Ah. Splendid read, if you enjoy what one could consider a romance novel. It was published in the 40's, I believe. It seems like the type of novel with which you may fall in love." Suddenly, he raked a plainly-covered book from the bottom shelf and tossed it in his hand once. Mila noticed the slight fading of that cold exterior which Illumi seemed to wear constantly, and it occurred to her that Illumi had hated reading as a teenager. How he has changed... she thought, watching as he stood before her.</p><p>"What makes you so sure I am to fall in love with this novel?" she asked almost teasingly, a loose giggle floating off of her lips.</p><p>Illumi, a dumbfounded look in his eyes, shrugged gently. "There's no way for me to be sure. It is but a mere hunch, but hunches are the reason I live so comfortably as to have such a wide selection of literature from which you may choose."</p><p>"What is it that you do?" Mila asked, the realization coming to her that not once had she inquired about Illumi's profession.</p><p>"I suppose you wouldn't know, as my father is the one more notably carrying the Zoldyck name. I own a shipping company, you see. People pay me to ship their goods across the world via trade boats—from Cuban sugarcane to American steel; Indian spices to Chinese silk; Middle Eastern jewels to Italian wines."</p><p>How spectacular! Mila, eyes wide at the thought of such glowing foreign things, looked about Illumi's library for just a quick second. It only made sense, as she thought about it, that he may have worldly connections. Not only was there a huge map on a wall on the first floor of the library, pinned and tacked at various locations (and with red threads connecting the pins of said various locations)—but the evidence was around the whole house. Illumi's tea was Japanese, and his rugs were Persian; the dinner she'd eaten the night before had been spiced with turmeric, and her dessert was topped with cinnamon; she'd sipped a vintage Chianti with Kikyo before her departure. His cottons were Egyptian and his silks from the Orient. Why, she wondered if there was a single thing within the whole house that had been made in England. What did England manufacture, anyway? Textiles, perhaps? I digress; the astonishing thing to Mila was the fact that Illumi could so easily access foreign goods that would make Mila broke, were she to attempt to purchase them.</p><p>"Amazing. I can only imagine the places that must take you. Do you travel?"</p><p>Illumi nodded, folding his hands behind his back. "When I first launched the business, yes, I did. I had to set up stations across the world. I spent quite some time in the United States, Brazil, Egypt, China... I seem to be blanking—but there are many more. I enjoyed my travels immensely, but I would have preferred them more were I able to spend some time leisurely."</p><p>"You did nothing entertaining while in other countries?"</p><p>"Not particularly, no. I went to a few bars, balls, and dinners... but the ultimate goal was always business related, so I would not count that as leisure."</p><p>"That is unfortunate."</p><p>He said, "Yes, but no matter. Tell me about your travels. Clearly, you are from France."</p><p>I suppose he has decided to ignore that we were together at some point, Mila decided, sighing gently. It made sense that he may play dumb while around the servants or his mother, but refusing to acknowledge their history when they were alone was, to Mila, quite rude. "Clearly, you are from France" he had said, as if she had never spent hours telling him about her childhood in Lyon while they sat in the old Zoldyck manor just outside of London. She had not wanted to be bitter, but now she could not help it. Nevertheless, she chose a point from which she would begin her story, and from there she told Illumi about her immigrating to England, back when she was a teenager. She talked lightly, making sure to keep Illumi at arm's length.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. House Servants</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Oh, wait!" Mila stopped the passing maid in the hallway. She was carrying a box of glass dishes in her hands, and Mila happened to notice that one of the plates was about to fall.</p><p>"Yes, Miss LaPlante?" As the maid turned, the plate slipped out of the box. The maid gasped? But she didn't reach for the plate on account of the other two dozen in her arms. Just when it was about to crash to the floor, Mila swooped in and grasped onto its edge.</p><p>She stood carefully, grasping the plate with two hands now, and smiled towards the maid. "You have dropped this."</p><p>"Oh, thank you, Miss. I don't know what I would have done if that had broken." She blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Master Illumi surely would have yelled at me."</p><p>"Really? He does not seem like the type." She did not recall him ever yelling at her for making an error... but maybe that was only because he was not her technical employer when she worked for the Zoldycks.</p><p>"He does not often yell at us, not for small mistakes, but these dishes were a gift from the royal family."</p><p>"Amazing." She looked at the China dish in her hand and noticed the expert handiwork and masterful floral design in the outermost portion of the plate.</p><p>Mila then reached for another five, six, seven plates-and, at length, managed tediously to balance a dozen of the dishes on top of one another. This way, the plates were evenly divided between the two girls. The maid, with surprise in her eyes, tucked the box against her chest with one hand and stacked the plates within using her other hand. Once again, she blew her stray hairs away from her face. Mila looked her over with curiosity. Her long, black dress and white apron suited her thin, almost bony frame. She was tall and thin, much unlike Mila, and her face was slim and rigid. She was tan, with smooth, somewhat-greasy skin, and her cheeks wore the slightest bit of pink blush. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ti ght French braid, and it was such a glossy dark brown that it almost looked wet. She had a strange freshness and rugged healthiness about her frame that, at first glance, may have made her seem almost ugly-but it was the kind of ugly that only exists at first glance; take another look at the woman, and she would be as comely as a dove soaking up early morning sunlight.</p><p>"What is your name?" Mila asked, adjusting the plates in her arms.</p><p>With the same shock on her face which Mila had seen with Felix the other day, the maid said, "Annabelle, Miss LaPlante." She had the kind of British accent which Mila had only heard from the members of a travelling circus-the lower-class London commoner's grating, guttural tongue. But it sounded sweet and soft on her.</p><p>She smiled. "That is lovely. Where are we taking these plates, Annabelle?"</p><p>"You needn't do anything of the sort, Miss LaPlante—I mean, I could never ask a guest to assist with the housework."</p><p>"It is no trouble in the least." Mila shook her head. "Besides, I am not preoccupied; I certainly have the time to help you." She started down the hall in the direction which Annabelle had been heading beforehand, being sure not to let the plates jiggle or sway around too much.</p><p>Annabelle followed, matching Mila's pace. "Alright... To the kitchen, then."</p><p>"Where is that?"</p><p>"Ah—downstairs and directly left. We aren't too far, Miss."</p><p>They turned a corner and were met with the late afternoon sunlight shining through the windows. The dark wood glistened in the sunlight, giving the hall a radiant glow that bounced off of the mirrors and the brass picture frames and spiraled across the red hall rugs. To the right, there was nothing but windows showing an overhead view of the courtyard, with its flowing water fountain and flourishing flower garden. The curtains swayed gently in the warm, humid breeze flowing in through the open windows. Mila noted the benches underneath the windows and the statues and busts on the other side of the hall. Though she had been in the old Zoldyck home back in Guildford, which was far more enormous than Illumi's home, it was amazing just walking around a building this complex. In the Guildford home, in which Mila had worked as a teen, there were but two hallways running parallel from one another, and each room between them had two doors. In this manor, however, there were twists and turns here and there; even looking to the left was enough to lose a body in the labyrinthine halls.</p><p>"You may call me Mila," she said. "How long have you been working for Monsieur Zoldyck?"</p><p>"Oh, I think it's been a good... maybe year and a half, give or take. He's a fine boss indeed. Treats the staff like peaches, though I doubt he even knows our names-well, besides Felix, the head butler." Annabelle turned the corner upon reaching the bottom of the staircase. "You see, the man I worked for before I came to work for Master Zoldyck was just a brute in every sense of the word. He worked us to death, and rarely did I get any breaks, and I didn't even get no sep'rate room from the male staff. It was wretched, I tell you, Miss—er, Mila."</p><p>They came to a mahogany push door and let on through into a huge room. It was humid and airy, and the floors were made of glossy white tiles. The walls of the kitchen were a yellowish-orange and were set aglow by warm chandeliers. The wall to the right of the entrance was made of brick, and against it there was one large fireplace and two in-wall ovens. The other three walls were lined with marble counters and an ice box. There were bowls of apples and freshly-dried glasses, silverware hanging on the walls, little plants on the window sills over the sinks. The center of the kitchen had a marble-top island with a small wine rack in its side, and four people-two men and two women-wearing servant uniforms were standing there and playing a game of cards.</p><p>Upon seeing Mila, the well-known guest of the manor, the four servants paused their game immediately and stood as straight as sticks. Their faces morphed into surprise one instant, and then artificial politeness the next.</p><p>One of them asked, "Miss LaPlante, do you need something?"</p><p>She shook her head, following Annabelle to the cupboard containing all of the China and expensive silverware boxes. "No, thank you. I am just helping with the dishes."</p><p>"Anna, you shouldn't make a guest do no work," the younger male servant chastised.</p><p>"Why, Sawyer," she explained, "I didn't make her do it—why, Mila offered."</p><p>"Mila!?" the four of them gasped with such fervor that you would have thought they'd seen the devil himself.</p><p>After setting the China in the cupboard, Mila turned to the servants and gave them yet another sweet, sweet smile. "I told Annabelle that she may call me by my first name. There is no need for such formalities with me, even if I am a guest in your master's home," said she. "After all, I was once a servant for Monsieur Zoldyck as well, so we are... what is this phrase?"</p><p>"In the same boat?"</p><p>"Yes, that."</p><p>Sawyer, a man of about twenty years or so, responded, "You used to work for Master Zoldyck, Miss?" He looked her up and down conspicuously. She wore a pure white collar shirt made of fine linen, its sleeves baggy (but cropped exclusively at the wrists), and her burgundy skirt was covered in a thin layer of intricate lace. It was so that she looked like dressed-down royalty to anyone in servant's clothes.</p><p>"Yes, I worked for the Zoldyck family when I was a girl. I was with them for three years—or maybe it was two... I do not recall... Whichever it was, I spent it as a washwoman at their summer home."</p><p>"Why, you don't look the type at all—no, Miss."</p><p>Another servant stepped in: "I thought for sure you's t-the Queen's sister, Miss."</p><p>"There are... so many reasons as to why that isn't at all correct, Shawn."</p><p>"Well, I can't think of none," Shawn replied defiantly, crossing his arms.</p><p>Annabelle said, "The Queen is eighty years old, Shawn."</p><p>"And?"</p><p>The oldest maid gave Mila a smile just then. She was lovely, maybe around forty years of age, with fiery red hair and a soft, kind face. "Shawn gets a little higgedly-piggedly at times. I'm Blanche, by the way. Lovely to meet you, Miss LaPlante."</p><p>"I am glad to meet you too. You may call me Mila, please—there is little need to be so formal."</p><p>Blanche nodded. "Of course. These are some of the other servants," she said, gesturing to the other three around the island. "This is Sawyer, Harriet, and Shawn. Sawyer is the groundskeeper, Shawn is the stable boy, Harriet is a scullery maid, and I'm just the downstairs housekeeper."</p><p>The three turned their attention towards Mila just then, deciding it best to flash their brightest smiles. Despite her expensive outfit and fashionable hair, her makeup and accent-Mila had not felt so ostracized in that room until this very moment, during which they all were smiling at her. She knew the smile, the unsure upward tilt of the lips. It was how she had always smiled towards the guests of the Zoldyck summer home when she worked as a washwoman. A reserved, almost gilded smile. Mila disliked the idea that these people thought themselves unequal to her; it sent shivers down her spine which took all her might to suppress. Well, by and by, she returned the smile and took her eyes across each of the staff members.</p><p>Sawyer seemed, at first glance, like the most put-together of the three. He wore denim overalls paired with a ratty, tweed shirt smudged with dirt and grass-stains. He was stocky, tall, and overall quite attractive-but, despite this, he appeared incredibly tired. He was White, with his warm skin was dotted with an array of freckles (especially around his crooked nose). His dark eyes were thin and hooded, almost as if they were drooping. His hair was long brown, falling over the sides of his face in a middle-part of neat waves.</p><p>Harriet was an exquisite young woman; her hair was black, or possibly dark brown, but Mila could not be sure in the kitchen's lighting. She was Brown, maybe seventeen or so, and looked far too regal to be working as a scullery maid. She carried herself with an outward reflection of deep fortitude and confidence, and Mila so appreciated it that she thought, I wish there were more books about women like her. Like Mila, she had a hooked nose-but Harriet's seemed to be the most prominent feature of her face, as a hooked nose might have seemed out of place on a face as smooth and delicate as hers.</p><p>Upon looking Shawn over, Mila thought that the boy was as Irish as Irishmen can get—with his fiery red hair, his pale blue eyes, and the freckles all over his face. Not to mention his accent, which Mila assumed was Irish (though all of the accents in Great Britain sounded much the same to her, a foreigner herself). He had a frosting of redness under his eyes which made him look as if he had just been crying. His face was thin but strong, and he had a surprisingly lanky build for a stable boy; then again, he could not have been much more than sixteen (if even that), so Mila understood his feeble-seeming frame.</p><p>"It is nice to meet you all," Mila said, further approaching the island. "What are you playing?"</p><p>Blanche replied, "Euchre. I must wax the drawing room now; would you like to take my place for me, Mila?"</p><p>"I would, thank you."</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Spilled Ink</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>But to Elizabeth, nothing came with more clarity than the belief that ownership in her tenement was as broken an idea as the walls that keep the rain off. She returned home from work, the fetor of oil and smoke clipped to her nose and the touch of needles and threads and vibrating machines glued to her fingertips; in her body she could feel the remnants of the factory weighing on her bones and her flesh like chains, and she-</p><p>...she...</p><p>Mila thrust herself back in her chair, sighing loudly. She dropped her dip pen onto her desk. My goodness, what did she do? She pictured Elizabeth, her main character, in her head; Elizabeth was a lovely woman with a very strong face-much resembling Harriet, the scullery maid, if a little older and a little sadder in appearance. She always imagined Elizabeth as looking sad—and maybe that was because the character's upbringing had been sad. She read through the last four paragraphs she had written, her face scrunched up behind her reading glasses. It sounded a bit like a melody playing from a gramophone in her head, with the way her sentences rolled, slowed, sped-up as she read them silently. She read through a second time. A third. A forth, but only partway through. The words came to Mila's head just then.</p><p>She sprang forward, her arms diving for her pen. She snatched it up and dropped it into the ink jar. As she yanked the pen out, the ink tipped. The black liquid flooded the desk immediately, sodding the notes and scraps of paper Mila had laying around. She grasped onto her journal (the leather bound one, containing the only existing version of her book) and threw it behind her, onto the bed.</p><p>"Merde, merde, merde!" she exclaimed, rushing into the bathroom. She snagged a towel, already used thrice, off of the rack and ran to the desk. Already her notes were nearly decimated, but she didn't know what she would do if the ink also dripped onto the floor</p><p>The door opened just then. "Miss LaPlante? Why, is all well?"</p><p>She glanced towards the door and spotted Felix standing there, a towel draped over his forearm. She cried, "Non! J'ai renversé l'encre, et mes notes sont en ruine, e-et la serviette d'Illumi et aussi en ruine, et—"</p><p>"Miss LaPlante," he approached her and removed his gloves, handing them to Mila, "I'm afraid I don't speak French—not at all, no. But allow me to assist."</p><p> "Je—I am sorry. It is just that my notes and the towel are... they have ink all over them, and that is all the ink I have left, and... Oh, what a mess." She stepped back, grasping and fiddling with Felix's gloves. She watched as he pressed his own towel on top of hers and worked on soaking up the black spill. He looked back and gave her a nod, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.</p><p>"When I was a boy, I lived in a tenement in Liverpool with an old French woman, Anne-Marie, and her husband, Pierre," he told calmly, continuing to work on sopping up the ink. "Why, misses Anne-Marie used to try and teach me French when I wasn't in school or working. I could never grasp any of it, the language, and to this day I barely remember how to say hello. However, being as young as I was, I used to drop and break things all the time. Goodness, I'm sure I broke at least twelve cups, yes, ma'am; at the time, we were dirt-poor, you see, so I knew that a broken glass was quite an expense to be dealt with. I would cry and cry every time. But do you know what Misses Anne-Marie always used to tell me whenever I broke something? She would say, 'C'est pas la fin du monde, mon cher.' I believe it was her way of telling that everything was alright, though I'm not quite sure what it means. To this day, that is all the French I remember. She used to say it so often that I remember it even twenty years later."</p><p>By now, Mila had managed to calm herself. She found that Felix's voice was gentle in a way that made her feel like her father was speaking to her. Mr. LaPlante always used to talk with a special softness, as if he was constantly trying to console someone. She sat herself on the bed, poking at the dried ink-spots on her dress. She laughed suddenly, her throat still strained from stress.</p><p>"Is that your way of telling me not to worry?"</p><p>"Take it as you will, Miss LaPlante." He spoke more brightly now, but also more firmly, as if he had realized that speaking to a guest so casually was rude. "Your French, it simply reminded me of an old memory."</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>"I believe that is all there is of the spill. I must go to wash these towels."</p><p>"Thank you very much, Felix. Would you happen know where I may find another bottle of ink? That was my last inkwell."</p><p>He began to fiddle with his fingers. "Gosh, Miss LaPlante... I haven't a clue, no. Would you like me to go ask Master Illumi? He may have a spare in his office that, with his permission, you can borrow."</p><p>"No, no, I'll go ask him myself." She sighed. "I am in need of a walk. Where is Monsieur Zoldyck?"</p><p>"I believe he's in the conservatory, Miss LaPlante. Why, he mentioned that his roses needed watering at breakfast—yes, indeed."</p><p>She reached for her hat, a petite straw one with a white band tied above the brim. She watched as Felix gestured out the window, towards the glass atrium peaking out of the treeline. Her room had a lovely view of the outdoor flower garden, which (as Mila had learned over her two weeks at the manor) was tended by Sawyer. This was the garden open to the public, so when Illumi had guests for business meetings or any formal event, they were allowed a stroll in the garden if they so pleased; this included Mila, who had walked through the circular area a few times. It was lovely, but she was not able to stay for long without her allergies kicking up. Her nose did not agree with pollen very well after Mila's years spent living in cities.</p><p>By and by, after deciding she looked acceptable-as it was true that Mila looked almost other-worldly while she was writing, harboring the belief that utter chaos was the only key to genius, and so she should look the part of chaos-Mila took her leave from the room. She made sure to fix her hair and her makeup, and she changed into a pair of outdoor shoes instead of her little slippers. She left Felix behind when he assured her that Annabelle would be able to remove the ink within the cracks of the desk (as Mila would be financially responsible for any irreparable damage, however minuscule).</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Orange Roses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Illumi was indeed in his conservatory. He was standing at his favorite rose bush, which was placed in front of the fountain, under the shade of a small apple tree. The conservatory was brightly lit by the sunlight that peeked through the clouds. The air was warm and humid, and a slight breeze coming through the open glass panels of the angled roof brushed through the leaves and Illumi's bun of hair. The floor was made of white marble, and protruding here and there were flats made of sand-colored stone; they were where Illumi kept the plants and provided a nice walk in between the trees and leaves and flowers, almost resembling a maze. The flat at which Illumi was working had not only his rosebushes, but also a large number of wildflowers, mainly native to the east of France (irises, poppies, lilies, carnations, and a multitude of other colorful plants), and a small tree full of dark red apples.</p><p>At length, Illumi set down his clippers and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had been trimming the dead leaves from the rosebushes for over an hour. He fixed his green apron, which he wore over a well-fitted white dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and a pair of khaki pants. He felt sloppy almost, his tie having been tossed over the chair in the center of the atrium and his top two buttons having been undone—but it was dreadfully muggy, and he couldn't help but work up a slight sweat under the waxing sunlight. He looked up at the tweeting of a bird and saw, in the apple tree, a plump, brightly-colored robin peering down at him. The robin tilted its head, whistled for a moment, and then tilted his head the other way, all while staring at Illumi. In a strange moment, perhaps inspired by his fatigue, Illumi cocked his head to one side and whistled a soft tune to reply.</p><p>"Monsieur Zoldyck? Are you in here?" a voice called suddenly.</p><p>The bird flittered away, leaving Illumi with a jostled whistle. Recognizing her heavy accent, he called back, "I am, Miss LaPlante."</p><p>"Goodness... Where are you? This place is quite large, and there are three different ways to go."</p><p>His eyes shut tightly, Illumi pictured a layout of his conservatory. "Hm," he said. "Miss LaPlante, go straight, and then... then make a right, and then a left."</p><p>"Straight," he heard her repeat slowly, "right, and then—oh, here you are."</p><p>Upon looking to his left, Illumi saw Mila standing before him, holding onto her hat gently as if she were worried that something may come and snatch it off. Nevertheless, her eyes flashed with wonder as she looked about, noticing the color and the lushness of the various gardens. He examined her face, noting the slight part in her lips and the flush of her pale cheeks. She had a hooked nose but otherwise soft features—marred only slightly by faded acne scars. Under her hat, she wore her coils up in a loose french twist, and strands of the black hair fell over her temples and at the nape of her neck.</p><p>He stopped himself for a moment, realizing that—though she had not noticed—he had been staring, and staring is quite rude no matter its reason. Illumi turned back to his rose bush and continued clipping at the dead leaves. He tried his best to remove them from the dirt, as such was best for the aesthetic, but he did not mind missing a few; they would decompose and prove beneficial for the worms. Illumi stuck his finger into the dirt just below the bush and wriggled it around.</p><p>"Miss LaPlante, would you do me a favor?"</p><p>Being pulled from her awe at the garden, she veered her head towards him. "Yes, what is that?"</p><p>"Would you be so kind as to fill that watering can for me—the one on the table?"</p><p>In the center of this area of the conservatory, there sat a small circular table made of metal with two chairs to accompany it. Draped over one chair was Illumi's tie and blazer and, of course, the table had on it a yellow, tin watering can. Mila swiped it up and looked about the atrium.</p><p>"With the fountain water?"</p><p>"Yes, yes... With the fountain water."</p><p>She stepped next to him and, after rolling up the sleeves of her cream-colored dress, dipped the can under a stream of warm water until it was filled to the brim. With extra care, fearing a spillage, Mila brought the watering can to Illumi and set it before him. He looked down at her and, once again, prayed he could stare for just a moment longer. He wished then that she would bring him a hundred watering cans if it meant he could watch her do it. At length, he gave Mila a nod and returned to his flowers—but not in ignorance of her presence.</p><p>"Thank you. What brings you by, Miss LaPlante?" He picked up the watering can and, while pushing aside a few branches of the bush, began to filter water into the soil.</p><p>Mila replied, "I have spilled the ink that I use for my book. Felix had helped me to clean up the mess, but he did not know where I could find another inkwell. He said you may have a spare."</p><p>"Goodness, I'm sorry, but I am afraid I'm all out of ink as well. I have had little work to do as of recent, so the thought of purchasing more ink has completely eluded me. I suppose that may put a dent in your writing schedule."</p><p>"It is of no trouble. I have other things to do besides write, after all. But I thank you for trying to help at the least, Monsieur Zoldyck."</p><p>"Have you found yourself well entertained by my facilities, then?"</p><p>She nodded. "Yes, I have. I adore the library and the kitchen especially."</p><p>"The kitchen? What on Earth has brought you there?"</p><p>"I have been playing English card games with the staff when they have the spare time. Just yesterday, I had played my first game of Rummy."</p><p>"Oh, my..."</p><p>Mila said, "Is there a problem, Monsieur Zoldyck?"</p><p>"No, none in particular. However, had I known you were so bored as to spend your time gambling beside the house service, I would have offered you to spend time with me." He set the watering can down, keeping his eyes glued to the roses. "Miss LaPlante, would you wish to accompany me to the opera this evening? I believe there will be a showing of Carmen."</p><p>"The opera? In London, you mean?"</p><p>"London, yes. We may stop for an inkwell or two on our way, if you wish."</p><p>"The opera sounds lovely. I have never seen an opera."</p><p>Illumi said, "It's quite enjoyable when you're with someone—dreadfully boring otherwise. I rarely go now for the fact that, when I am alone, I find some man or another attempting to persuade me to lower my shipping prices or do business with me in some shape or form. Perhaps a woman like you at my side may deter them from disrupting our evening."</p><p>At that moment, he realized how forward his commentary may have sounded. He looked to Mila, however, and saw her relatively unfazed. She too had begun to look towards the flowers. He watched her inch closer and gingerly reach out a hand to stroke one of the roses. She gazed at the orange roses with lips a touch agape and eyes thinned with admiration. Illumi felt a pulse reach his fingertips and, at length, he reached out and clipped one of the orange roses off of the bush. He turned towards the table and reached for the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his blazer, then dousing it under one of the fountain's streams of water. He wrapped the bottom of the clipped stem with the damp kerchief and handed it ever so gently to Mila.</p><p>"You seem to like the orange ones. I'm sure Felix or another staff member will be able to show you a vase if you ask."</p><p>She brought the flower to her nose and breathed in its scent. "It is lovely. I did not know you gardened so well."</p><p>At first, Illumi wanted to question her on that; it was true that he had spent much of their youth together discussing plants—which new ones Illumi had found while riding through his family's estate, the different types he'd drawn in his journal after they were planted in front of the house, what the meanings of different flowers were and their connections to historical events. He wanted to ask if she remembered any of that, but then realized that he had been giving her the cold shoulder in that respect as well, and decided against it. It would be better not to bring up old memories like that, especially when at the risk of discussing what we once were. However, he did end up moving his mind towards his late teenage years, so with a sigh he began:</p><p>"I picked it up just after Killua was born, actually. After he was born, I had a lot more free time than before, so I picked up gardening when I wished to do something other than read."</p><p>Mila chuckled. "I feel like I had less time after my brother was born."</p><p>"I didn't know you had a brother."</p><p>"I mean, I do not have one now..." She sighed. "His name was Hugo. He fell ill when he was two, after a flu... What is the word? Un épidémie, a..."</p><p>"Outbreak?"</p><p>"Yes, an outbreak. He and many of the children in our neighborhood passed that winter."</p><p>Illumi looked down, his hands slowing as he worked with the roses. "That's unfortunate. I'm very sorry for your loss, Miss LaPlante."</p><p>"It is of little matter to me now." She shook her head. "As you were saying—you had less free time after your brother was born. Why is that?"</p><p>"Ah, you see... Well, my father is Greek, you know, and my mother is Japanese—meaning I'm of mixed ancestry. When I was born, my father gave the rights of his banking company to me because I was his only son. I was raised to be the heir of Zoldyck banking, which involved sitting in long meetings, intense etiquette lessons, learning about economics and government and history. That all began when I was seven years old or so, and by the time Killua was born, I was quite good at it all, despite the fact that I didn't much care for economics in the first place. However, my father gave the rights to the company's future to Killua once he was born, so my lessons on being a banking tycoon stopped; they were no longer necessary."</p><p>"Why would he give the company rights to Killua so suddenly?"</p><p>Illumi traded the clippers for the watering can and looked over at Mila. "He looks Whiter than me, and Englishmen are more willing to do business with other White men."</p><p>"Oh, I see..." she said solemnly. She tilted her head to the left, towards the fountain. "I am very sorry about that, Monsieur Zoldyck."</p><p>"Ah, what is there to be sorry about? It's not as if you decided how the world would work, is it?" He removed his gloves and turned towards the table. The table made a slight clang when Illumi threw the gloves down, and an even louder clang when he set his clippers down.</p><p>"I suppose—"</p><p>Illumi interrupted, "It's an hour drive to London, so it would be best to leave by four. We'll catch a light dinner around five; the opera is at six-thirty. Does that sound like a plan?"</p><p>Though taken aback by his curtness, Mila nodded. "Yes, Monsieur Zoldyck."</p><p>"Very well. If I were you, I would ask the upstairs maid for her assistance in choosing your dress. What you're wearing at the moment is an outing dress—something you'd wear to observe a polo match. Now, if you'll excuse me..."</p><p>Mila stayed behind, lingering against the lift with her rose in hand. She watched Illumi walk out, his posture firm and his hair falling out of its bun. He had loud, bold footsteps that gradually quieted until—finally—she heard the conservatory door click shut.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Waltz Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>*[1] -  Hisoka's last name (Morow, now de Moreaux) has been altered in this work to suit his nationality.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"It seems that we have spent more time at the bar than in the opera house," Mila said to Illumi before sipping her champagne.</p><p>The gallery in which the couple stood was of considerable size, but it seemed in some parts to be almost at capacity. The couple was positioned in the back, against a luxurious mahogany bars stand, but the rest of the people tended to stay either by the windows, so not to fill the room with their cigar smoke, or in the center, dancing to whatever tune the pianist was playing. Everyone was dressed lavishly, in their suits and dresses. The women's skirts glimmered under the yellowish glow of the crystal chandeliers. The whole scene looked like how Mila might have imagined a royal ball—the glow, the regality, the stuffiness of a bunch of rich people all stuck in one room together. Mila liked watching and noting how high-society folk acted with one another. Most of their interactions seemed forced. They feigned niceness, wearing overly-bright smiles and pretending to know one another. </p><p>Illumi sighed, leaning against the bar with his elbow. "I would like to say you're wrong, but I'm afraid it's true. I enjoy the opera, but I've noticed that the majority of attendees are here solely for business. If it's not the men planning investments," he gestured his glass to the left end of the room, where a group of five older gentlemen stood huddled around a table, "then it's their wives acting peachy so they may come home and tell their husbands how marvelous this man's wife is or how sweet that man's wife is so that, in the end, their husbands will all be more inclined to do business with one another. It all leads back to their stocks and investments and companies and that whole lot." He sighed.</p><p>"And that is why you brought me here, Monsieur Zoldyck?" she asked playfully, a smile on her face. "So you may avoid all those stocks and investments and companies for a night?"</p><p>"Perhaps I want to avoid business for a night because I brought you here." He sipped his drink and turned to the bartender. He slid his empty glass toward the man. "Domaine de Marcoux, please. And, Miss LaPlante, do call me Illumi; as we are now in a casual setting, I find it is only correct."</p><p>"If I am to call you Illumi, then you must not call me Miss LaPlante."</p><p>"That sounds like a deal." He chuckled just then. "It would seem that you've tricked me into doing business this evening."</p><p>"Skipping formalities is called business now?"</p><p>"In a sense. Care to dance after this drink?"</p><p>Looking over at the four or five couples waltzing casually across the room, Mila replied, "They do have it all here, do they not? Opera, champagne, dancing? What is there next? Will we be seeing a display of fire tricks tonight as well?"</p><p>"You mean fireworks?" a smooth, deep voice asked.</p><p>Mila and Illumi turned and saw a tall man approaching them. He wore a brown tweed jacket (making him to stick out, as this was a black-tie event, you see) and had a head of dark ginger hair which seemed to shine under the lights—as if it was so heavily packed with grease. He had a strong face with a long nose and curved lips. His thin eyes looked Mila up and down, and then his mouth curved upward as he turned his attention to Illumi.</p><p>"Ah, Hisoka," Illumi said—and Mila was unable to tell whether he was glad or dejected to see his this man. On one hand, his tone was a little brighter than normal, but at the same time his expression had not changed one bit.</p><p>"I don't mean to intrude—but I saw you and thought it only right to say my hellos. I had no idea you would be here."</p><p>"Neither did we," replied Illumi. "This was practically a last-minute decision. Had I known earlier, I would certainly have given you a ring."</p><p>"You never give me a ring when you say you will, but it is nice to know that you try. Did you enjoy the show?"</p><p>"Very much so. As far as the subject matter, I think it's quite radical; I understand why Carmen wasn't one of the more popular operas of the seventies. However, you did play Escamillo very well."</p><p>"Thank you, Illumi. That brings my heart joy." He rested his hand on his chest with a queer smile. "That liberalism is making a splash nowadays, though," Hisoka said. He turned towards Mila. "And you? How did you enjoy it, Miss?"</p><p>"I thought it was mesmerizing. I am new to the opera, though, so my opinion is of little importance."</p><p>"A woman like yourself must own no opinion worth ignoring," he commented, extending his hand. Now in French, he said, "Hisoka de Moreaux*. Lovely to make your acquaintance, miss."</p><p>"Mila LaPlante. You speak French?" She allowed him to kiss the top of her right hand, then returned her champagne glass to said hand.</p><p>"I should hope so; I am from France, after all."</p><p>"You sound Parisian. Most non-native speakers sound Parisian, so I have it in my mind to believe you a non-native."</p><p>Hisoka replied, "My home is just outside of Paris. You're from the east, yes?"</p><p>"Lyon, yes."</p><p>"Ah, lovely. I've never been, but I have heard good things." He glanced at Illumi, who was now staring into his drink. "What is someone as beautiful as you doing with someone like Illumi?"</p><p>Looking up at the two of them, Illumi asked, "I heard my name. Are you two making fun of me?"</p><p>"No, no," Mila said to him in English, chuckling. "Wait, I thought you spoke French."</p><p>"What gave you that impression?"</p><p>She answered, "You have helped me with many English words. I thought..."</p><p>Hisoka let out a laugh, dropping his hand onto Illumi's shoulder. "He just has a knack for context, my dear."</p><p>"Hisoka's right. It is in no way difficult to understand what you mean when you're asking for the English word for nom de plume."</p><p>"I suppose that is so."</p><p>"Illumi, I've never known you to bring someone to the opera. How do you and Miss Mila know one another? Do you have a lover I don't know about?"</p><p>He said to Hisoka, "No, she's a friend of my mother. She's been staying with me while she writes her next book."</p><p>"Ah, I see." Hisoka nodded. "I suppose that means I'll be seeing a lot more of you."</p><p>"Opera season for you is over now, isn't it?"</p><p>Hisoka turned towards Mila and explained, "I come and stay with Illumi when I'm not working on a show. I find the city absolutely dreadful, so it's a fine change of pace, moving out of London for part of the year."</p><p>"Of course, there would be no reason to move in with me if you, say, purchased your own home. Goodness knows you have the money for it."</p><p>He laughed. "Where's the fun in that, my friend? Besides, it's clear that, if you really wished me begone, you would not allow me to stay with you in the first place."</p><p>"I'll be having a full house in a fortnight, it seems."</p><p>"Ah, is Chrollo coming in as well?"</p><p>"I believe he's on a boat as we speak."</p><p>"Fantastic. We'll throw a party in his name." Hisoka stopped and looked at Mila, who was handing her empty glass to the bartender. "Miss Mila, would you care to dance—now that your drink is empty?"</p><p>She glanced at Illumi. "Oh... Yes, of course. Thank you, Hisoka."</p><p>The two made their way to the center of the hall, where four or five couples, all more on the elderly side, had created little dance area. Hisoka and Mila fitted their way between the others and faced one another. Hisoka's hand rested on Mila's waist slowly but firmly, as if he was afraid of being too bold. After all, she had only met him five minutes ago, and though the hand on the waist was a polite gesture when dancing, Hisoka perhaps realized how it may be taken poorly. He began to lead them in a slow, somewhat clumsy waltz; the task of dancing formally had never been cast upon her.</p><p>His eyes taking her in, Hisoka released a chuckle. "You don't know how to waltz, do you?"</p><p>The two spoke completely in French now. "I haven't any clue. I'm a writer, not a dancer."</p><p>"Ah, it's easy." He stopped and firmed his grip on both Mila's hand and waist. "A waltz is always in 3/4 time, meaning that you count in threes instead of fours, like you might most other songs. Try counting in your head; you will see what I mean."</p><p>One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three...</p><p>"I do..."</p><p>Hisoka nodded. "There you go. When you dance, every step you take counts as one beat. In a waltz, you take the same six steps over and over." So he began to lead Mila slowly, letting her follow along with his steps. "One: your left foot steps back. Two: your right foot swings right and back. Three: Your left foot joins your right. One: your right foot steps forward. Two: your left swings left and forward. Three: your right joins your left."</p><p>"That is quite complicated, Hisoka."</p><p>"All you need is practice, my dear." He took a second and counted in a whisper for the two of them. "You said you're a writer, yes?"</p><p>She replied, "Yes, I am. My debut was published just last year."</p><p>"How fascinating. What was it about, might I ask?"</p><p>"A high-society Italian woman working to escape an unhappy marriage. She has to run away to Germany, though she doesn't speak any German. As she navigates her new world as a peasant, she finds herself having to uproot continuously because her husband is searching for."</p><p>"That does ring a bell, though I don't read nearly as often as I'd like. Quite an interesting plot if I do say so myself. But, dare I say, a French woman writing a novel about an Italian in Germany sounds quite difficult."</p><p>"In English, no less."</p><p>"In English? How skilled you are."</p><p>"Indeed. I simply wish I spoke English as well as I write in it."</p><p>Hisoka looked down at Mila's feet. "You're getting the hang of the waltz, by the way. But I understand. I read English horribly, and I can write in it well enough, but I speak well enough for someone whose accent remains. I do believe it's part of having spent my adolescence in England. But your novel, it sold well? Since you're working on another, I'd assume it must have."</p><p>"Quite well," Mila said. "Surely, I may live comfortably off of my profits thus far, but sales are slowing down. That is why I'm working on another."</p><p>"Oh, yes, that's why you're living with Illumi." He glanced towards his friend at the bar. He was listening to an elderly gentleman with a cigar in his mouth. Hisoka noticed Illumi's eyebrows furrow every time he glanced between the man and Mila and himself. "So... You and Illumi. How bold would I be in assuming that you two are in a courtship?"</p><p>"Not too bold, but still incorrect." She tilted her chin up to look at Hisoka as he swayed. The song which the pianist had just begun to play was a little faster-paced that the previous one; she was worried she may trip and fall on Hisoka at the quickening of their dance.</p><p>"Ah? I thought my friend had, at once, mentioned a girl named Mila. He was madly in love with her as an adolescent. Never got over it, to the best of my recollection—but, ah, how well does one's drunken consciousness remember everything said over billiards?"</p><p>Mila forced a laugh, returning Hisoka's full attention to her. He twirled her as she replied, "Not well, I suppose. His betrothed was named Mary, if I do remember correctly. Mila, Mary? They're quite easy to confuse."</p><p>"I suppose so. Have you known Illumi for a long time?"</p><p>"Not necessarily. I merely worked for his family when I was a girl."</p><p>"Ah, what a turn of events; now you're a guest in his home. Rags to riches."</p><p>A tap on the shoulder caused Mila to spin. She bumped into Hisoka in surprise, her back resting against his chest. He slipped his hand onto her shoulder and smiled. In English now, Mila said, "Goodness, you startled me."</p><p>Illumi stood before her, his face reddened so slightly. "My apologies, Mila. I was wondering if you'd like to take the carriage back now. It will be near midnight by the time we get back if we were to leave now."</p><p>"Is it already that late?"</p><p>He pulled out his pocket watch. "It's 10:45 on the dot. I simply have lost my taste for the company with which I've found myself." He glanced over his shoulder.</p><p>Mila followed his gaze and saw the elderly gentleman—the one with whom Illumi had been speaking just moments before—wiping his face with a handkerchief, which was slowly being inked with a purplish liquid. "If that is what you wish." She turned and held out her hand to Hisoka. "It was lovely meeting you, Hisoka," she said in French.</p><p>"The pleasure was all mine, dear." He kissed the top of her hand gingerly. "I will see you both in a week, add some change, after the last showing of Carmen."</p><p>"A fine time seeing you, Hisoka. Fare well." Illumi shook his hand and thereafter offered his arm to Mila. She wrapped her gloved hand around his bicep.</p><p>"Fare well."</p><p>Hisoka walked off, likely making his way towards the bar, but Illumi and Mila didn't stay around to watch. Instead, Illumi took charge and guided Mila out of the hall and into the front lobby. They checked their coats and walked a block along the busy London street to find Mr. Wyberg, their coachman, reading under the light of a streetlamp. The whole time they remained silent, and not by Mila's wish; Illumi had exuded to Mila an air of irritation which, for a passing moment, made Mila wonder if she had said something to put him off. </p><p>About halfway through the ride home, Mila urged herself to finally speak. Her throat had fallen dry after such a time spent in silence, so she had to cough thrice in order to muster her voice. She saw Illumi jump out of his trance when she first coughed, and he pulled his attention from whatever had so fascinated him through the carriage window and towards her.</p><p>"Illumi—or, Monsieur Zoldyck?" She didn't know if she could call him by his first name in private.</p><p>"Like I said: call me Illumi, please."</p><p>"Oh, yes... Illumi, are you upset that... that you did not get to dance?"</p><p>"That I did not get to dance with you?"</p><p>"At all. You did not dance at all."</p><p>"No, that bothers me none. Are you alright, Mila?"</p><p>"Well, yes... I just thought you were upset—perhaps with me. You seem irritated."</p><p>He sighed, bringing his finger to his bottom lip. Again, he looked out of the window. "After you and Hisoka went to dance, Mr. Fowley, one of my father's associates who happened to recognize me, came over. We had a chat for a moment before he started... speaking crudely of your attire and your... your figure, so to say—as well as our intentions later this evening. I splashed his drink in his face. Now I worry what repercussions my father will face. Mr. Fowley's business is quite important to my father's."</p><p>Mila folded her arms across her chest and, her gaze low, nodded. She kept her eyes on the blackness of the carriage floor, staring at what she assumed were Illumi's shoes nearly touching the edge of her skirts. The carriage bumped and shook—and even more so as they moved onto the dirt roads of the countryside. In that moment she realized that Illumi could have remained quiet with Mr. Fowley; he could have even joined in, agreeing and adding on to whatever it was that the man had been saying. Especially when at stake was part of his father's income, or some social ranking with which Mila was unfamiliar, it would have been better for Illumi's sake to concur with the old man. But he didn't. Instead he threw a drink at him, which may have been an overreaction, but not knowing what was said, Mila did not judge. Frankly, she didn't want to know what had been said at all.</p><p>She gave Illumi a glance. He was staring out the window, his posture slouched for what was likely the first time in his life; his eyes had begun to droop, and his lips kept twitching to suppress a yawn every few seconds. A soft smile crept onto her face.</p><p>"Thank you, Illumi."</p><p>Finally he let a yawn spill out of his mouth. "Any time... Let's do this more often, shall we?"</p><p>"The opera?"</p><p>"It needn't be the opera. Let's spend more time together."</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Newsboy Cap</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Ah, Illumi. How nice to see you out in the fresh air. Goodness knows you could use some sun on occasion." Hisoka hopped out of the carriage and patted off his trousers. "And what a lovely day it is."</p><p>"I tend to more than three thousand acres of riding land; you mean to tell me that I don't get out enough? Where's your companion?"</p><p>"Ah, give him a moment; he fell asleep on the ride. But, say, with skin so deathly pale as yours? I'd assume not. How kind of you, by the way, to allow me to retrieve Chrollo with your own carriage." He tilted his head towards the coachman, who was pulling the last bag off of the top of the carriage. "And thank you, Mr. Wyberg, for being so gracious in driving me and my friend."</p><p>"Really, quite nice of you indeed." Just then, a young man stepped out of the carriage and onto Illumi's patio. He rubbed his eyes and straightened his cap smoothly. "Ah, good to see you, friend."</p><p>The man had quite an attractive, strong face. He could not have been more than twenty-five, if that, and held an air considerably less distinguished than that of his two men in his company. He had pale skin with a heavy red tint on his cheeks which made him look like he'd been kissed by a strawberry. His nose was straight, and his dark eyes were wide and excited.</p><p>Setting the bags on the patio, Mr. Wyberg chuckled. "Of course, you two. I mean, it's my job, but the pleasure's all mine."</p><p>"Thank you, Eliot. Take the horses to the stable to get them cleaned. You never know what filth lies in Portsmouth, as my father used to say," said Illumi.</p><p>"Yes, Sir."</p><p>As the coachman wheeled off on the carriage, Illumi gave Chrollo a smile. They gave each other a hug, patting their backs and chuckling lightly. "A pleasure to see you as well, Chrollo. How was the boat-ride."</p><p>"Terrible. I forgot how much I hate boats. Thank you, again, for showing me such hospitality. It's very much appreciated."</p><p>"Any time."</p><p>Hisoka interjected, "Why, Illumi, now that I am here, where is the lovely Miss Mila? I've been waiting to see her all week."</p><p>"Who's Mila? Got a fiancee, huh, Illumi?" jested Chrollo, tipping his newsboy hat upwards to show the messy middle-part in his black hair.</p><p>"Not my fiancee, just someone staying in my home, much like you two. And I believe she left for a walk not long ago, down by the—oh, here she is now. What timing."</p><p>Chrollo and Hisoka both looked towards the end of the drive and saw, wearing a peach-pink promenade dress, Mila speed-walking towards them. Chrollo dropped his weight onto his cane when he noticed her nose in a leather-bound journal as she scribbled down something or other. How curious, he thought, the corners of his lips upturning. Her heels clicked across the cement of the driveway. She walked furiously, and the only thing Chrollo could compare it to was how he used to walk at school when he was in a rush but had already been chastised once for running by his headmaster.</p><p>"Ah, Mila," Illumi greeted, causing the woman's head to turn up.</p><p>"Hello, Illumi." She slowed to a stop, looking between the two new guests. She greeted Hisoka in French, exchanging cheek kisses with him (as was customary with the French, and so brought them both closer to home), and then looked towards Chrollo. Quite conspicuously, she eyed Chrollo up and down with wide eyes and drawled out, "Who is this?"</p><p>He held forth his hand for hers to take, then kissed the top of her hand graciously. "Chrollo Lucilfer. Splendid to meet you, Miss...?"</p><p>"Mila. Mila LaPlante."</p><p>"LaPlante? As in A.R. LaPlante, the author?" He released her hand, his eyebrows perking up slightly.</p><p>"Indeed."</p><p>He smiled. "I thought A.R.'s birth name began with an M." Recently, he had read an editorial critiquing Mila's newest novel, and though the editor had mentioned her real name, he had not been able to put his finger on it after reading it. "I'm quite the fan of your work, by the way. I look forward to whatever comes after Following Breezes."</p><p>"That is good to hear." She glanced towards the front door, scratching her wrist gently. "I would love to hear your criticisms of my novel at a later time, but at the moment I have defeated my anxiety of my blank page, and—"</p><p>Hisoka interjected, "Mila, dear, we say 'writer's block' in English."</p><p>"Did I not say that?" She quirked an eyebrow.</p><p>"You said l'angoisse de la page blanche in English."</p><p>"Ah, I understand. Mon Dieu—sometimes I hate English," she replied, looking back at Chrollo. "I no longer have... writer's block, so I hope you do not find it rude of me to take my leave so soon."</p><p>"Of course. I understand entirely, Miss Mila, and I wish to keep you no longer."</p><p>She smiled. "Thank you. Goodbye, Illumi, Hisoka."</p><p>"I'll have a maid call for you towards dinner," said Illumi, nodding her as she began to step away.</p><p>The three men watched Mila as she took her leave. She sped up to the door, nearly tripping on the final step to the porch, and greeted Felix as she passed. Chrollo, again, shifted his weight onto his walking cane. Normally, such was a habit reserved for when his knee ached, but at the moment he found himself awestruck at the woman whom he had just met. Or, perhaps, he wondered, he may simply have been entranced by the fact that she was one of his favorite authors; after all, Chrollo knew well the fine line between attraction and appreciation. Alas, he imagined Mila's soft face and the way her hair was falling out of its up-do, and in only a moment he decided that this was attraction. Attraction in its slightest form, but attraction no less. </p><p>"And, Illumi, you said she's not your fiancée?" he asked carelessly, as if they had been on the topic for a half-hour; as if it may come as no surprise to Illumi that Chrollo found Mila as lovely as he did.</p><p>Firmly, with unwillingness, he replied, "No, she's not."</p><p>"Do you suppose she is attached at all?"</p><p>Hisoka joked, "I believe she's a homosexual."</p><p>"Hisoka, that's not true and you know it," Illumi scolded. "Don't say such things."</p><p>"Only a little joke, my friend. In any case, Chrollo, I don't believe Miss Mila is in the business of finding love; however, I won't discourage you from trying. She does seem quite remarkable."</p><p>Illumi said, "I will discourage him. She's here on business, not to be cornered and courted by those under the same roof as her. After all, imagine how awkward it would be were she to reject your so premature affections."</p><p>"He's only saying that because he's in love with her," Hisoka whispered as he leaned towards Chrollo."</p><p>"I am not."</p><p>"I saw how you looked when I asked her to dance at the after-party last week. You were prepared to shatter the wine glass in your hand. You can't deny it, Illumi."</p><p>"Why, that's—"</p><p>"Ah, it matters so little, my friends," Chrollo interrupted, tipping his cap upwards. "Let us get settled into our rooms and have a chat over some pool, yes?"</p><p>"Billiards, you mean?" Hisoka corrected.</p><p>"When in Rome, I suppose. Yes, billiards."</p><p>"Very well. Billiards in thirty?"</p><p>Illumi sighed, still visibly irritated with the conversation which had just transpired. "I have to make a business call; let's make it forty-five."</p><p>"Agreed," said Chrollo</p><p>"I concur," Hisoka finished.</p><p>By and by, the three young men found themselves on their separate ways; after collecting their bags, Chrollo and Hisoka were led to their rooms by Annabelle and Felix, respectively; Illumi made his way to his study and called up Mr. Fowley to talk business. More specifically, he was apologizing for his behavior at the opera and asking that his episode not affect his father's business relationship with Mr. Fowley.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Tiramisu</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Ah, you're back, Miss LaPlante," Felix greeted, stepping aside as he pulled the front door open. "How was church?"</p><p>"It was refreshing. I have not been in quite a long time," she replied.</p><p>Annabelle and Sawyer hopped up the steps and simultaneously both smiled at Felix. Sawyer cheered, "Good day, Felix. How's it going?"</p><p>"Well enough, Anna. You seem to have enjoyed church as well." He closed the door, shutting out the bright light of the mid-day sun. Felix took Mila's walking-suit vest and parasol gently and hung them both over his forearm.</p><p>"Indeed!" said Annabelle.</p><p>In the foyer the three stood, all looking out the window towards the treeline. It was quite noticeable how the sky was darkening; the thick clouds had begun to group together and swirl into a storm ready to pop, like someone had shaken up a little glass bottle of Coca-Cola and was waiting for it to explode. The wind whisked through the trees and grass, shook away leaves here and there, kicked up the dust on the patio. The humidity had entered the house and filled the atmosphere with its lush, warm scent.</p><p>"Annabelle, after you have lunch, Mister Lucilfer's pillows need to be changed; he says they're too soft. Sawyer, Master Illumi says you have the day off on account of the storm brewing; the flowers will get a fine enough watering. You both are dismissed."</p><p>"Yes, sir." The two left, arm-in-arm, and began to whistle one of the gospel songs which the choir had sung at their church service.</p><p>Mila loomed in the foyer, her hand holding the curtain aside as she peered out the window. "It does look very bad already—the weather, I mean," she said quietly, almost as if she worried the storm may hear her and come for her specifically.</p><p>"Indeed. I believe I heard quite the crack of thunder when I stepped outside for a cigar earlier. But as long as the windows are closed and the horses are in the stables, we've nothing with which to concern ourselves."</p><p>The stairs creaked suddenly, attracting both Mila and Felix's attention. They turned and saw Illumi walking down the stairs. He carried a cream-colored shirt and was messing around with his suspenders, trying to get them to stay on correctly. Mila noticed that, for once, he wore his hair down, and truly it was about as long as hers (if not a smidgen longer). He looked her up and down and, Mila swore, just a hint of a smile showed on his lips. Once he made it to the bottom of the steps, he approached Felix and let out a sigh. "Good day, Mila. Felix, It seems that I've torn a hole in my favorite shirt. Have the laundry maid repair it for me as soon as possible, please," he said.</p><p>Felix took the shirt from him and examined the hole. "Of course, sir. This looks like a quick fix."</p><p>Mila stepped over and examined it. She laughed upon poking her thumb through it. "Why, Illumi, this should only take you two seconds. Do not waste Harriet's time on this."</p><p>"Not only is it her job, but I also don't know how to sew."</p><p>"This is just mending. I will teach you." She snatched the shirt from Felix and further kneaded through to get a closer look. "Besides, it is Sunday; let the girl have a day off." Seemingly ignorant of her surroundings, she started towards the stairs.</p><p>Illumi and Felix exchanged glances in wonder; then Illumi dashed off to catch up with the woman, leaving Felix to chuckle in the foyer. As Illumi followed Mila to her room, it occurred to him that she had quite the tendency to speed-walk when she was in furious thought. She had done so not just here; he had seen her pacing the courtyard with her journal from his bedroom window just a few days earlier—and, before that, he saw her and Annabelle carrying flour to the kitchen, speaking and running absolutely hellbent for leather. Often she seemed at her most focused when thinking about writing, and Illumi had to admire it. He'd tried writing creatively in his early twenties and knew his work to be atrocious; the differences in skill level between his and Mila's when it came to creative fiction were vast, so he had to wonder what went on in her head when she was so focused.</p><p>After making a quick stop in Mila's room for a sewing kit, they entered Illumi's room and sat on the love-seat. Illumi's room had a grey/blue theme, with the pillows and seats all a light grey and dark blue walls and a matching bedspread. There was a bathroom door on the far right of the room, beside the armoire, and the bed was backed up into the turret so that the afternoon light shined down upon it. He had a few paintings of some oceans and a family photo or two on the walls. The room smelled pleasantly salty as well, as if all of the sheets and carpets and pillows had soaked up some sea air for a few hours.</p><p>"Your bedroom is lovely," Mila said.</p><p>Illumi straightened his vest out. "Thank you. Now, since you are forcing this job upon me, how do I mend a shirt?"</p><p>"Because the rip is at a seam," she pulled the shirt a bit to highlight the hole, "it will be a lot easier to mend. Turn the shirt inside-out." He did as she asked. "Now, you must choose a thread that matches the color of the shirt and a medium-sized needle."</p><p>Illumi opened the green leather box from Mila's room and pulled out the pin cushion. He chose the needle to which Mila pointed and then selected a spool of thread to match the shirt. Mila took the shirt and placed it on the coffee table in front of them. As she moved forward, Illumi caught a whiff of her perfume—lilacs, or some combination of wildflowers, he thought—that made him sigh slightly.</p><p>"Now thread the needle. Sometimes it helps to lick the end of the thread." She scooted closer to him and, grasping his hands in her own, helped his fingers guide the thread through the eye of the needle. She felt him holding his breath in his strong chest. Her chest fluttered suddenly, but she took care to grab the scissors and ignore any idea in her mind. "Cut the thread."</p><p>"To what length?"</p><p>"That of your arm."</p><p>Illumi snipped the thread. "Now what?"</p><p>As she began to demonstrate, Mila instructed, "You pull the needle half-way through, knot it like so... Then you stitch it like this." She stitched half of the hole, then left the other half for Illumi to do. "Try it."</p><p>Shakily, he took the needle from her and focused hard on it, desperately trying to ignore the fact that he could feel Mila's leg against his own. Of course, he knew she had only sat so close in order to instruct and observe his handiwork better, but it was a distracting thing. He could feel its warmth radiating through the floral church dress which he'd instructed Felix to have purchased for her just last week. As much as Illumi hated himself for it, buying Mila things without telling her had been his way of showing his affection; she never noticed when a new dress or pair of shoes was added to her wardrobe, only that it was there and it was in her armoire, so it must have been hers.</p><p>Illumi then noticed Mila scratching at her wrists; upon further examination, he saw that much of her skin had been rubbed almost raw. He asked, "Is something wrong, Mila?"</p><p>"Pardon?"</p><p>"Your skin looks a tad... irritated."</p><p>She looked down as if out of embarrassment. "I have an allergy."</p><p>"Allergy? Is it something in my room? We may move, if you wish."</p><p>"No, it is nothing. Just the bath soap."</p><p>His eyes widened slightly. "The bath soap?"</p><p>"Oh, wait—you have stitched too far. Pull the end a bit." Mila's hands guided him as he did so. "Right there. Once you've reached the end, you do an over-stitch going the other way. Like this..." Again, she showed him half way and then let him complete the second half. "Knot it two or three times, and then cut the loose thread."</p><p>A knock at the door came just then. His head turning up, Illumi said, "Enter."</p><p>Felix came into the room with a trolley. "A thank you to Miss Mila from Chef Sidney for helping him organize the dishes yesterday—and Master Zoldyck's favorite tea. Here, we have black tea from Assam, India, a special tiramisu with extra powdered sugar, and chocolate-covered raisins."</p><p>"Oh, my..." A gaping smile broke on Mila's face as she looked the tiramisu over. She breathed in the coffee and chocolate scent filling the air. "Felix, will you thank John for me? This is very kind of him."</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>Illumi added quietly, "Thank you very much, Felix."</p><p>"Yes, Sir. If you will excuse me..." And with that, he left.</p><p>Mila scooted the trolley closer and unpacked it. She set the tiramisu and raisins down on the table, then handed Illumi his tea. The silverware was as shiny as could be, and Illumi noticed that the special plates had been used—the ones which the chef saved for when his wife came to have lunch with him (they ate in the courtyard then, and Illumi had happened upon them multiple times). He sipped his tea, feeling the warm, bitter liquid cascade down his throat. He hadn't realized just how hungry he was until he had his first sip. From the bowl, Illumi snagged two chocolate-covered raisins and popped them both in his mouth. The Ecuadorean chocolate, how delightful, he thought as he let the chocolate melt in his mouth.</p><p>"How often do you assist the help?"</p><p>With a mouthful of tiramisu, Mila looked over at Illumi with wide eyes. "I fear my answer may get me in trouble."</p><p>"I'm only curious." Illumi let out a soft laugh, one that caught Mila like a deer on train tacks.</p><p>She giggled just a slight bit (a giggle partially true and partially forced). "I assist whenever I see them, if I am being honest."</p><p>"I don't understand why. Servants should be separate from those they serve, you know. It'd be beneath you to interact with the help."</p><p>"Is that what you thought when we were together?" Mila asked lightly—even so lightly as to chuckle as she said it. Not at all was she intending anything by it. But the moment she said it, the room fell into a thick silence.</p><p>Rain began to tap at the windows, and the once-whispered thunder grew louder as it boomed. Mila watched as Illumi turned his shirt right side out. He examined their partnered stitching, gliding his finger across it gently. The steam from his tea slowly began to dissipate as the cup cooled, and the chocolate inside of the half-eaten tiramisu began to slouch out onto the plate. As Mila observed the tiramisu—the tea, the rain on the windows, Illumi's pale fingers, the swirling clouds outside—she grew angrier, or more upset. Not upset enough to make her cry or storm out of the room, but she could feel the heat inside of her chest; she could feel it rising up her neck and pounding in her head. She couldn't pinpoint why, and that was what irritated her most. As she sat beside Illumi, their thighs touching, she realized that she wasn't sure as to why she was upset.</p><p>Firmly, Illumi murmured, "That is not what I meant, Mila—"</p><p>"Then what did you mean by it?" she demanded.</p><p>"Don't you turn this onto me. I'm not the one who mentioned it." They both stood abruptly, eyes locking just inches apart.</p><p>"Have I angered you by telling you the truth?"</p><p>He scoffed. "We were doing so well in not addressing this elephant in the room—Why, your comment was utterly uncalled for."</p><p>"When your servants spend day and night trying to make me feel welcome here, I feel it is the least I can do to return their favors with kindness; if it is enough, so helpful I will be." She swung around and approached the door. "And do not forget that I am closer to your servants than I am to you—socially and emotionally."</p><p>Illumi closed his eyes, not waiting to watch her leave. The door slammed, echoing through the room, and a clap of thunder followed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Jerusalem</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*1} Franglais: a fluid mixture of French and English. One may switch between French and English mid-sentence repeatedly or use one language's sentence structure and the other's vocabulary.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite the hand suddenly resting itself on her back, Mila refused to look up from her cookbook. But when she heard the voice in French say, "What's on your mind, Dear?" she knew who it was.</p><p>"Hello, Hisoka," said Mila. "What brings you to the staff kitchen?"</p><p>"You're not a member of the staff, so I feel I should ask you the same. The head butler told me you were here."</p><p>"So you were searching for me?" A tiny smile cracked on her face; however, she still felt as if she wanted to be upset, so she let it grow no further. She tapped her cigarette against the ash tray beside her and then inhaled another stream of bitter smoke.</p><p>"Indeed. But that does not answer my question."</p><p>She answered, "I'm making a cake."</p><p>"Why not have the cook do that for you?" Hisoka's hands posted against the counter on either side of Mila. He began to look over her shoulder at the old recipe, which was written inside of a large leather-bound notebook in scraggly handwriting. Most certainly, this was the chef's personal cookbook.</p><p>"I'm not hungry, just upset." She sighed, inhaling from her cigarette once again. "And when I'm too upset to write, I either bake or have sex—so here I am."</p><p>He chuckled at her boldness, watching the woman tap her cigarette against the ash tray and put it to her lips once again. She had full, rosy lips coated with a gloss of saliva—as it had become clear to Hisoka that she had a tendency to lick her lips as she smoked. For only a moment, he thought over her words, imagining her lips against his as she exhaled a hot cloud of smoke—but her knew the image to be completely absurd. "Lovely to know you have more than one hobby."</p><p>"I have many hobbies, you fool." Again, she tried not to laugh. "I just like writing the best."</p><p>Hisoka replied, "I must know—How do you spend your time?"</p><p>"Like I said: I write. But when I'm not writing, I'm reading; when I'm not reading, I'm editing; when I'm not editing, I'm sleeping. That's what it's like when your income is based wholly off of book sales."</p><p>"I suppose I understand, working with the theater. When I'm not singing, I'm memorizing lines—and so forth, and so on." Hisoka tapped his finger on the recipe title. "So, you bake when you are upset? And what troubles you, my dear?"</p><p>"I wish the matter to be left alone," she said quietly. Hisoka shifted, prepared to leave her to her thoughts—but she interrupted: "Stay. I like you where you are."</p><p>Hisoka leaned down slightly towards her ear. "Is that a bold way of stating you wish me to come closer."</p><p>She sighed, turning around to face him, her back pressed against the counter. "I'm not sure whether I've been so frustrated towards rashness or if I just like how your breath feels on my neck."</p><p>"Oh, what a sin. My dear, by my own code of honor, I don't move until I get a yes or a no," Hisoka stated, and he took a second to rest his chin on the top of her head. A crack of thunder shook the windows suddenly, and the air in the room ran cold.</p><p>Mila dropped her cigarette into the ash tray a final time. "I... Help me bake this damned cake."</p><p>And, with that, the issue of whether or not the two would find themselves enraptured with one another's bodies was solved. Case closed. So Hisoka stepped back and pulled the book over to read through the recipe. Mila, in the interim, collected the bowls and measuring tools she saw fit. Fits of metal bowls clattering and teaspoons clanging and cups clicking passed—and, at length, the two found themselves set on materials and ingredients. They measured and combined, folded and stirred, added and mixed. By and by, what came from the oven was the sweet smell of double chocolate fudge.</p><p>"By God, what time is it?" Hisoka asked, wiping his brow of what little sweat.</p><p>Mila searched the room for a clock. "Looks like... half-past midnight."</p><p>The two stood over the cake as if it were the map of a country they had just conquered. Steaming on top of the stove was a beautiful chocolate cake in a round pan, the edges just slightly darker than the center. Perfectly done. So perfect that the two decided there to deem themselves professional chefs, and they celebrated with a glass of champagne from the wine cellar.</p><p>"To our baking skills," they toasted, their glasses clinking together.</p><p>Hisoka lit a cigarette and handed it to Mila, then lit one for himself. "I think the only reason this project was a success was because you were in charge."</p><p>"The only reason it was a success was because I was in the room."</p><p>"How bold of you. I like that." He paused, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Tell me about yourself, my dear."</p><p>She scoffed. "Ah, you can read a biography of me in the back of my book any day. I want to hear about you."</p><p>"Where would you like me to start? I have a whole twenty-six years' worth of stories to tell, give or take."</p><p>"Start from..." she sighed. "Start from your earliest, most significant memory."</p><p>Hisoka thought hard for a moment; his eyebrows furrowed, and his naturally-upturned lips straightened as he weeded through old memory after old memory—as twenty six years adds up to quite the number of notable moments. As he thought, he looked over at Mila from across the kitchen island. In a floral church dress whose pale pink color suited her quite well, she sat on the marble counter, and only her head was turned to face him; the rest of her body was angled towards the exit to the hallway. Her hair was falling out of its up-do, and her makeup was worn, especially her lipstick. Her face was soft and kind at first glance, but Hisoka was watching and waiting for the moment when that might all fall apart, so perhaps he would catch a glimpse of sadness or maybe anger. She had been angry when he first entered the room, and that much he realized. Additionally, he also realized that she looked much like Sister Laurente—and so he began.</p><p>"Well, my earliest memory would have to be... my Christening, which was on June 6th of 1878. I was around five or so. I suppose I have memories earlier than that, but you did say significant."</p><p>"I did. You were only Christened at five? That's quite later than most children."</p><p>Hisoka nodded. "The clergy in town was unsure as to whether or not I had already been Christened, so it was the first thing they did upon deciding I was to live with them. You see, I've been told that I wandered into town one day—horribly malnourished and wearing a potato sack as a tunic. I hadn't a clue who my family was or how I had gotten to where I was. As I said, the church took me in and put me under the care of Sister Abreille Laurente, who was a little newer at the church."</p><p>"Did she train you to be the perfect Christian?"</p><p>"Does it look like she did?" They both began to laugh.</p><p>Mila replied, "No. I had to ask."</p><p>"Understandable. But she tried her best. I was Christened, given the name Hiel, and even a birth date: June 6th, of course. Sister Laurente fed me, clothed me, and even let me go to to school with the other children. I much preferred school to church, however. Oh, she hated that. I'd skip out on bible study so often; after classes, I'd offer to stay back and help Mademoiselle Meil clean up the classroom or water the flowers around the schoolhouse. Whenever I came home, I would have to pray the rosary before dinner to ask God for 'the strength to become a better believer.'" He made air quotes with his fingers.</p><p>"Do you not believe in God?"</p><p>"No, I do... I just don't think God ever became upset with me for coming home late." He shrugged. "Anyway, that was a normal routine for a good ten or eleven years. By the time I was sixteen, I was going to be thrown out of Sister Laurente's care by the church and left on the streets of Moreaux. It wasn't her choice; I overheard Father Boucher and the others saying that I had two options considering my age: leave, or become a priest. She knew I didn't want that—she was begging them to let me stay, maybe pick up a job as as a handyman around the church."</p><p>"Couldn't you have worked somewhere else in town?" Mila lit herself another cigarette.</p><p>"I suppose so, but the matter was more about how I would avoid being homeless. A priest or a church carpenter get to live at the church; similarly, as a nun, Sister Laurente had no place for me to stay outside of the church. I suppose it was foolish of me, but I began to believe that she would consider leaving the church for my sake—and, as much as I didn't like going to church and all that, I knew it was Sister Laurente's calling..." His gaze drooped to the floor. "I waited a little bit and, one day, a circus came to town. The Peculiar Show of Peculiar People. I wrote Sister Laurente a note and set it on her bed. Then I hitched a ride with the show seventy miles to Paris. While I was at it, I changed my name from Hiel to Hisoka, which I stole off of one of the magicians in the show. <br/>"Of course, I'd always liked to sing and dance, so I picked up a job as a stagehand for the Parisian Theatre, where I also played minor roles and understudy parts and began to make a name for myself. I got to work with an opera singer by the name of Madame Marino for a good six months or so, and she assisted in furthering my career greatly. Once the French people knew Hisoka de Moreaux, I took my opera to England, and have been in London since."</p><p>Mila said, "I had it in my head that you'd been in London for more than a decade. Your English is much more... casual than mine, and I've been speaking relatively fluent English since I was seventeen."</p><p>"I thought you'd been working for the Zoldycks at sixteen. How did you manage that?" He chuckled.</p><p>"I knew very little English until Madame Kikyo took me under her wing. I could ask 'How do I get to the shirtwaist factory' and "How much is a loaf of bread.' When I took up a job with the Zoldycks, how lucky I was that the chef and Madame Kikyo both spoke French. We would speak in Franglais* with one another all the time, and Madame Kikyo would lend me English books from the library without her husband knowing. Monsieur Zoldyck didn't like her being so close to the help as she was with me."</p><p>"Interesting that you were able to learn a language completely by listening to it. A roommate of mine in Paris, Eliot, who was studying at the university, taught me most of what I knew by the time I moved to England; I can't imagine learning English without a formal teacher at my side." Hisoka swallowed the final drop of his champagne. "I suppose you caught llumi's attention with your French. The English always fawn over even the most dreadful of French accents."</p><p>A clap of thunder shook the windows just then, and both parties jumped slightly. Their eyes shot toward the windows to gaze at the raging storm. As Felix had predicted, it was simply awful outside. Branches broke off of trees; rain whacked the windows; wind rattled the old bones of the house and whistled as it broke past the lampposts and chimneys and weather vanes. In some strange way, the storm seemed like a form of joy to Mila, rather than a stereotypical cavalcade of God's fury. Yes, it was true that there would be damage tomorrow—branches on the lawn, uprooted flowers from the beds, thousands of dried-up worms on the patio; at the same time, however, she couldn't help but imagine the wind and the rain as one huge celebration—a thunderous festival. Under the cover of dark clouds, the raindrops twirled in the air to the howl of the wind like lovely dancers might to the flutes and drums echoing through a festival in, Jerusalem, perhaps.</p><p>"I would like to travel once I finish my next book," she said abruptly—softly.</p><p>Hisoka took his eyes off of the storm and looked over at Mila. His chest thumped hard once as he looked her over. She wore a solemn, thoughtful face. It was then that he noticed her eyes were blue, though it was hard at first to spot under then dimness of the kitchen. But he had noticed it solely because of the way they shined while watching the rain.</p><p>"Travel? How interesting... Where will you go, my dear?"</p><p>"I don't know. Jerusalem, perhaps."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Cashmere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mila let out a long, harsh sigh as she cast her gaze around the room. Four bouquets of freshly picked flowers were spread across the surfaces: one on her nightstand, one in front of her writing space, and two on the window sill. All were tagged with a little apology card, and all were from Illumi. It had been four days since their little tiff, and each day he had insisted upon having Felix deliver a vase full of flowers to her room. She didn't understand why; she had spoken to Illumi (though not about their argument) in the days following. In all honestly, as lovely as the flowers were (and as sweet as it was for him to use include primarily native eastern French flowers), she wished he would stop sending them and, perhaps, come and apologize in person. He was the one at fault, and it is cowardly of him to hide behind gifts, she thought as she picked up her dip pen.</p><p>A knock came at the door just then. Startled slightly, Mila looked to the door and called, "Who is it?"</p><p>"Chrollo, Miss Mila."</p><p>She sprang towards the door, excited that it wasn't just Felix with a new bouquet. She turned the knob and opened the door, only to see Chrollo with a vase of flowers in his arms. My, he was handsome. Under his other arm he had pressed to his chest a tweed newsboy cap; he wore dark brown pants with a sleek fit, a cream dress shirt and a green vest—and, of course, he had rolled his sleeves up and lacked a blazer to match. In the days she had seen him walking about, Mila noticed that Chrollo was considerably more dressed down than the other men in the house. She had to wonder if all American men were so consistently casual. He was tall, and he looked down at her with a slight, charming smile.</p><p>"You have brought me flowers?" she asked, taking the vase as he gestured it her way. She opened the door further for him. "Come in, please."</p><p>"Thank you. And I'm merely the delivery boy in this case. I told Felix I was on my way to see you, so he asked me to deliver them." He stepped about the room, observing the paintings and the decorations as the sunlight cast upon them.</p><p>"Oh, I see."</p><p>"You have quite the floral collection already, I see."</p><p>"They are from Illumi."</p><p>Chrollo exhaled amusedly. "And he swears you two are not in a courtship."</p><p>"We are not, I assure you." Mila set the vase on the window sill and turned it so the sunflowers were in direct sun. "This is his way of apologizing without actually apologizing to me."</p><p>"My, what did the poor lad do?"</p><p>"It is a long story."</p><p>"Very well. I won't pry."</p><p>Mila turned away from the window, flattening her skirts, and smiled at Chrollo. "Anyway, what brings you by? I am afraid I do not have much time before I have to leave."</p><p>"Yes, indeed. I was told that you were to be heading into town today. Because I will be taking Illumi's car on business, I was wondering if you would like to ride with me instead of taking the carriage."</p><p>"When do you leave?"</p><p>"Assuming you accept, as soon as I get down to pull out the car."</p><p>"Then I shall accept your offer. Thank you, Chrollo," Mila replied.</p><p>By and by, the two found themselves on the patio. Under the shade of her parasol, Mila watched beside Illumi as Chrollo pulled the car out of the garage. Illumi had a fat cigar hanging out of his mouth, and he had busied himself with tying his hair up into a bun. He put his hands down for a second, felt them twitch, and then raised one hand to mess with the bun again. With his other hand, he pulled the cigar out of his mouth and blew a soft puff of smoke. The harsh wind blew it away so quickly that Mila barely caught a glimpse. In the moment, she wished that she'd worn a warmer blouse with her walking dress, but she knew she hadn't enough time to walk upstairs and change.</p><p>"Mila."</p><p>"What?" she drew back, wondering why Illumi had to break the silence at all.</p><p>He sighed. "Do be careful in the city. I read about recent string of disappearances in the Soho district."</p><p>"I am not stupid."</p><p>"I didn't say you—" Illumi stopped and let out a sigh. Slowly, he said, "I didn't mean that. I just would prefer that you not return in a coffin."</p><p>Mila turned to him. "Illumi, I will be honest. I do not want flowers, I want an apology. If you can not give me one, then at least stop sending me flowers. I am running out of table space."</p><p>"No more flowers. Noted. What do you want me to apologize for?"</p><p>She clenched her jaw. The two stood there for a moment, eyes locked in a telepathic battle for a moment. Mila took in a long, harsh breath and played with the fingers of Chrollo's driving gloves. She looked over and saw him in the driver's seat, waving her over. She nodded and held up a finger for him to wait. Illumi took a drag of his cigar and waved Chrollo's way.</p><p>As Mila was about to walk away, she looked towards Illumi and furrowed her eyebrows. Firmly, she whispered, "You not knowing what to apologize for only shows that I never meant anything to you in the first place. I do not want that apology."</p><p>Illumi grabbed her wrist as she stepped towards the stairs. "Mila."</p><p>"Let go—"</p><p>"No. You know, you're a half-wit for even letting the words out of your mouth. You meant nothing? Ignorant and foolish."</p><p>"I am the fool? I am the fool?" She whipped her hand away and jutted her finger towards his face. "Was it not you who said it was 'beneath me to assist the help'? And was it not you who told me, a servant girl, that you loved me when we were eighteen? But, no, I am the fool for telling you that I meant nothing. Either you are a hypocrite or a liar. Which one is it? Which one are you?"</p><p>"I will not stand here and let you throw insults at me. You're the one who left, Mila. Don't forget that I stayed. So, yes, you're the fool; you said it back and then you ran. For you to stand here and call me a liar is hypocritical in itself. You're the liar here," he whispered firmly.</p><p>Just then, Chrollo rested his hand on Mila's forearm. Both she and Illumi veered their heads to to face him, and so he said, "Mila, we should get going." He had a look on his face that let her know this was a rescue and not some impatient interruption.</p><p>Mila glanced back at Illumi, who's eyebrows were knitted together in fury. "Indeed, we should." She let Chrollo pull her off of the porch and walk her towards the car.</p><p>"Fare well," Illumi replied, a slight snark in his voice.</p><p>Chrollo helped Mila into the car and then stepped around to the front of the vehicle. As he turned the engine lever, he saw Mila dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. The engine revved suddenly, popping and wheezing as it began to jump. As Chrollo stood straight, he glanced back at Illumi and, though he knew his friend could not see him so well, gave him a disapproving look. He had it in his mind that grabbing distressed women and accusing them of being liars (that was the only bit of their argument which he had heard) was bad taste; one would never do the same to a man, so how was it right to do the same to a woman? He took his driving gloves from Mila after settling himself in the driver's seat and fitted them over his hands. They were a sleek leather pair on the more expensive side of Chrollo's normal budget; unfortunately, though, they didn't correlate with his outfit, so he felt somewhat uncomfortable with them on.</p><p>The car continued to pop and wheeze as Chrollo pressed on the gas and pulled out onto the dirt road. After a minute of driving, he looked back and checked to see that they were out of view of the manor. "Have you ever been in a car before?"</p><p>Mila crossed her arms over her chest. Bitterly, she replied, "No."</p><p>"Ah, I see." Chrollo pushed his wind-swept hair away from his eyes. "So, were will I be taking you today? Are you going to the suffrage meeting?"</p><p>"No, I am not. I will be seeing my publishing agent for coffee. He wishes to check in on the progress of my manuscript. He has given me deadlines, you see."</p><p>"Deadlines? Foolish of him. You can't put a time limit on genius."</p><p>She chuckled lightly. "I would not call my work 'genius.'"</p><p>"To some, it may not be; I, for one, consider it just that."</p><p>"You flatter me."</p><p>"Not my intention at all. I truly do enjoy your work—not just the novel."</p><p>"You have read my short stories too? I did not know anyone in America would have access to something so small. I am not to the Americans what Whitman is to the British.'</p><p>He chuckled slightly. "Whitman is insufferable. But, yes, you're right—primarily because Americans refuse to read anything that isn't American. I digress. I came across a British news article on the boat ride here just a week ago, and there was a print of one of your stories."</p><p>"Wait," Mila said. "Did you just say that Whitman is insufferable?"</p><p>"I did."</p><p>"How can you say that?"</p><p>"I don't consider a single bit of his works 'poetry.' All he does is list things in a mix of purple prose and says, 'Hello, this is my poetry.' Don't get me wrong, I like the spirit of what he's saying, but I think labeling his work as poetry and titling him a revolutionary is false."</p><p>Mila scoffed. "As a writer, I think that any work should be considered what the artist calls it. Besides, he still rhymes and writes with rhythm—just not in the ones that happen to gain such popularity."</p><p>"Agree to disagree?"</p><p>"You can not just say that when I prove you wrong!"</p><p>The two laughed. "Well, you may be right, but you're not right enough to convince me otherwise."</p><p>"That is fair. But, on your comment that to call Whitman a revolutionary is false, I would like to point out that you have no way of knowing that." She shivered. "In ten years, his work may change the face of poetry itself. He may create a new sub-genre."</p><p>"A new sub-genre of fake poetry, I'm sure." Chrollo looked over at Mila with a grin. "Are you cold, Mila?"</p><p>She hummed. "No, it is just the wind."</p><p>"You look cold."</p><p>"I am not," she exclaimed amusedly.</p><p>"Are you sure?"</p><p>"Yes, I am sure."</p><p>"Are you absolutely, completely sure that you're not cold?"</p><p>"Chrollo, I am both absolutely and completely sure that you are a nit. I am not cold."</p><p>She folded her arms, a smile on her face, and looked out towards the pond to her left. Chrollo glanced at her and watched as she tried to press down the smile on her face. He turned the wheel just a bit to round the gravel bend, leaving them to drive out of sight of the pond and in a short stretch of thick willow trees and tall grasses. As he took his hand off of the wheel to fix his hair, Chrollo felt the wind pick up just a tad bit more. He removed his scarf, a soft, grey cashmere one which had been a gift from a friend back in America, and reached over to Mila. She jumped when he began to wrap it around her neck. Mila's hand reached up and touched the scarf, ready to remove it again.</p><p>"Keep it for a bit," Chrollo said, gently resting his fingers on top of her hand.</p><p>"I am not—"</p><p>"Yes, yes, you're not cold. I know. But keep it anyway."</p><p>Mila laughed and rested her hands in her lap. "You are as annoying as you are kind."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Boys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chrollo stood in the back of the nosebleed section of the hall, leaned against the wall, his notebook in hand. It took a bit of shifting and inching to see over the women's hats, but he managed to keep a relatively steady view of the speaker at the front. As he listened and jotted down notes, he tried to keep his eyes at the front; his gaze traveled to his right, through the grand bay windows and out to the building across the street. Mila was down in the cafe on the first floor, drinking tea and scones. He wished she was up there with him, listening to a woman in a gaudy purple dress talk about women's suffrage. I wonder how she feels about suffrage... Chrollo thought.</p><p>Back in America, he knew quite a few women who, surprisingly, were opposed to their own enfranchisement. It always did make for awkward conversation—a man for women's suffrage and a woman intensely against it. He had to wonder about Mila in that case. She didn't seem like the type who thought that women were already too involved in politics as it was. Maybe it was the fact that she was a literary, and Chrollo had an innate idea that literaries tended to lean towards liberalism in society. He completely hoped that she was in favor of such an idea, as he knew it would muddle up his high opinion of her so much were she to be against women's rights. Why, it was the very thing off of which he had built half of his career. Perhaps—</p><p>The speaker at the front coughed just then. "And that concludes our official meeting. The board and I shall now accept any questions."</p><p>A flood of women raised their hands, standing up and heading towards the front of the lines to have their demands or or their inquiries heard. Chrollo then moved among them, settling his newsboy cap on his head (though he knew an old woman or two was staring at him for the rudeness). Most of the women's questioned pertained to how they might fight any legal action taken against them for their political views, whether there wer jobs open for the London Women's Enfranchisement Daily, the newspaper with the slogan, "written by women, for women", and new sponsorship members. It only took a short fifteen minutes for Chrollo to reach the front line. The speaker sipped her water as she looked up at him.</p><p>"We rarely get any men at our meetings bold enough to ask questions. What insults shall you be throwing our way today, young man."</p><p>Chrollo cleared his throat and readied his pencil. "None, Ma'am. Chrollo Lucilfer, journalist for the National American Woman Suffrage Association—er, N.A.W.S.A.—newspaper, ma'am"</p><p>She appeared taken aback. "Refreshing, indeed, to meet a man for the cause—and a delegate from our sister cause no less."</p><p>"Thank you, Ma'am. Now, just two questions: how would you compare your style of fighting for enfranchisement to that of American suffragists? And what are your criticisms of the American fight for women's suffrage?"</p><p>"The answer is simple enough: I do not believe that the women over in the United States want it badly enough. Here in England, we make it a point to assert the fact that we must take active action—not passive action. Hit the government where it matters. Boycott stores, whack a few members of the police force over the heads, maybe throw a few stones. Get the people angry at the government, and the government will give us what we want. I don't believe that American women understand that, after this long, the woman who wants to earn the right as a human at the polls must learn to act like a dog first. Snarl, bark, and bite—don't just pick up your dip and write a letter. Does that answer your question, young man?"</p><p>Chrollo waited a moment as he finished writing, 'write a letter.' He then looked up at the speaker and said, "Yes, ma'am, indeed. May I... May I get a transcript?"</p><p>_____</p><p>"Felix, have you removed the vases from Miss LaPlante's room?" Illumi tapped his cigar against the tray on his desk.</p><p>"Yes, sir."</p><p>"And what of the soaps?"</p><p>Felix flipped to a page in his notebook. "A box of Egyptian goat milk and honey arrived earlier today. A fine purchase, sir."</p><p>"Indeed. It's said to be beneficial for sensitive skin. Trade out the bars in Mila's bathroom with the Egyptian soaps. And the towels; replace them with the Turkish embroidered set within the hour."</p><p>"Of course, sir. Anything else?"</p><p>Illumi sat up straight and began to shuffle through the papers on his desk. At length, he picked up a small sheet on a legal pad and glanced it over. "We will be expecting a visit from Mr. William Perkins from Durham Coalfields next Friday for lunch. I expect you to make all of the necessary preparations when the time comes, but—of course—it is important that you know ahead of time."</p><p>"Is this an offensive or defensive meeting?" This was Felix's way of asking whether Illumi would be the person in power or the person trying to negotiate. Offensive meant Illumi was making the pitch; defensive meant he was listening to a pitch.</p><p>He replied, "Surely, if he is traveling all the way from Durham to come meet with me, it must be defensive. He wishes to negotiate shipping prices on behalf of his the corporation head."</p><p>"I see."</p><p>"Nevertheless, I expect quite the show. We mustn't allow even the liaison to doubt my fastidiousness. Were he to believe my expectations low, he might not present his case with full force."</p><p>Felix shook his head. "You and I both know it will only scare the man further, and that's quat you want. I expect he will be a young intern, and places as luxurious as yours may frighten him to bits."</p><p>"You know me too well, though I don't believe the liason will be a mere intern. No matter;  as I said, be sure to trade the soaps and the towels out within the hour." He took another drag of his cigar. "Felix, check the directory for a language professor—any price—and have him or her contact me."</p><p>"Yes, sir." Felix dipped his head a bit before taking the tray off of Illumi's desk and exiting quietly.</p><p>Illumi set his pen in the inkwell and sighed. He patted off his cigar ashes into the tray. Slowly, as if afraid he would be caught and scolded like a child, he reached down into the bottom drawer of his bureau and removed a book bound in leather. The cover title, embossed in bold font, read A Guide to French for Beginners. As he picked up his dip pen again, llumi's fingers peeled open the cover to his bookmarked page. Say the following paragraph aloud, checking frequently for pronunciation (provided at the bottom of page 11) and inserting your personal answers. Remember your accent. Allez-y! Illumi had yet to learn what "allez-y" meant, so he wasn't sure of its purpose in this text.</p><p>Illumi sipped the tea he had sitting on his desk, jolting as he found it to have gone cold. As he swallowed the atrocious liquid, he looked across the given text. At length, he carefully began, "Je m'appelle... Illumi. J'ai 26 ans. J'habite à... Peaslake. J'aime danser. J'aime... faim—wait, no. Manger...."</p><p>_____</p><p>This piano needs to be tuned, thought Hisoka. He walked his fingers up an octave from middle-C. The notes rang throughout the room softly, like they were just floating around, shifting up and down the walls. Each note was off-tune a little bit in its own way, but C started to sound like B, and B sounded like A, and A sounded like G, and so forth. As he looked about the room, he saw the grey light sifting through the pale pink curtains around the room. In Hisoka's opinion, the window's were too tall. The ceiling was high enough as it was, but the windows, being maybe twelve feet high or so, made the room seem as if it had no walls at all.</p><p>He hung is arm over the side of the piano and let out a long, deep sigh. The one downside to staying with Illumi was the fact that there was nothing to do. Well, not completely; there was a swimming pool, a library, horses—a myriad of things with which Hisoka could occupy himself. But the fact of the matter is that he had too much on his mind to do anything besides sit around.</p><p>He looked down at the letter in his hands. Hisoka de Moreaux, said the envelope name, but it had been sent to the wrong address. His thumb brushed over the crinkled corner of the envelope. He thought about opening it and reading through it, but he didn't think he could take it. There was no good reason for Father Pierre to be mailing Hisoka.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Marriage Dissolved</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The second the tearoom doors shut, Mila sprang up from her chair. She picked up her tea cup and plate, swiped her coat and scarf off of the chair, and looked about the room. Chrollo then looked up from his menu and, spotting Mila, gestured her over with the rolled up newspaper in his hand. He was seated in one of the darker corners of the tearoom, munching slowly on a custard tart. As Mila approached, he stood and moved across the table to scoot her chair out for her.</p><p>"Your scarf," Mila said, gesturing the garment his way.</p><p>He shook his head and seated himself. "No, no. It's yours. Looks nice on you."</p><p>She halted for a moment. "Really? Well... Very well then, thank you." Her shoulders dropped as she sighed. She sat in her chair, flattening out  her skirt. "How was the conference? Dreadfully boring, as usual?"</p><p>Ah, thought Chrollo, it seems I have my answer. Dully, he replied, "Only boring if you're against it, I suppose. But let's not debate this; a hairy issue, I know."</p><p>"Debate?" Mila's head jolted back a bit. She spoke quietly, "I thought you were in favor of... you know, the women's right to vote."</p><p>"I thought you weren't." Chrollo flicked some of the gooey custard insides onto his fork and looked about to see if any stares had been earned. None.</p><p>"Not at all. I worked for a local pro-suffrage newspaper while studying at Bedford: the London Woman's Daily. I wrote articles that updated readers on news about women's rights and aimed to bring more women towards the cause."</p><p>"How interesting, I had no idea. Do you still write for them?"</p><p>Mila stopped just as she was about to raise her teacup. "Uh, no, I do not. I... my contractor said I had to quit if I wished to publish my novel with Whelton Publications."</p><p>"You agreed to that? With as many publishing companies as there are in London?"</p><p>"I... I do not want to talk about it."</p><p>Chrollo looked her over as she said that. Every muscle in her body slumped as if her limbs had been tied to cement blocks. He wasn't one to pry, especially when she seemed so conflicted about whatever had transpired between her publisher. Chrollo's mother had always told him that a lady's business was her own, and no man should have any cause for violating her privacy in uncovering said business. Thus, he decided to back off. He sipped his tea and averted his gaze to whatever ornament or novelty upon which he landed first throughout the room: the China tea set at the adjacent couple's table.</p><p>"So—"</p><p>"Are you enjoying England? Mila asked, setting her tea down on the tea plate.</p><p>He perked up. "Hm? Oh, yes—yes, indeed. Seeing Illumi and Hisoka is alway a pleasure, and I do love the city. Traveling lets me leave behind some things which I prefer not to see back home as well, so the whole ordeal has been a much-needed escape."</p><p>"I see. How did you and Illumi meet?"</p><p>"It's a rather boring story. My father and his have been good friends for some time. My parents' marriage was dissolved when I was around seven, you see, so when my father gained custody of me, he shipped me off to 'merry, old England' for a summer to stay with Miss Kikyo and her children. He hoped I would learn some class so that I would 'stop acting like my mother.' During my stay, Illumi and I grew quite close. I hadn't really seen him much until we turned about twenty-one. Now, I find some excuse to come and visit every year, or he takes a trip out to the States."</p><p>"I believe I recall him mentioning you once or twice when I—"</p><p>"When you two were courting?"</p><p>Mila jolted slightly. "Not... We have never..."</p><p>"Quite distinctly, I remember him mentioning you when we were a bit younger. I assumed that was why you had come back to stay with him; so that you and he may court once again."</p><p>"No, not at all. I am staying with Illumi strictly for business purposes. No romance." Her head tilted down towards the table, but her gaze met Chrollo's in a soft, shy sort of way.</p><p>"Ah, fair enough."</p><p>"Are you staying with Illumi to court him?—that is the real question."</p><p>The two laughed. Chrollo replied, "Surely, you jest."</p><p>"It would not be impossible. He does have that long hair..."</p><p>"That is true." A final huff came from his lips. "I desire more things than long hair in a woman—so, for the sake of our conversation, I fear that Illumi does not fulfill my romantic wishes."</p><p>"I assume not. Do you have a woman at home who does?"</p><p>"No, not anymore. I had a fiancee for a short period of time about a year ago, but she and I have long since fallen out of touch."</p><p>Mila perked up suddenly, shocked at the fact that Chrollo had given her an actual reply. She had much more expected an embarrassed chuckle, as the matter was on the more personal side of things. She felt a slight buzz swirl through her body as her thoughts loomed over the word 'no.'</p><p>"I am sorry. May I ask what happened?"</p><p>"Of course. It bothers me none nowadays. I mentioned my father's business, yes? Well, as you may imagine, he was quite upset when he learned that I would not be taking up his position upon his retirement, which would be in about ten years, and was instead going into journalism full-time; he had always thought that writing were just a hobby, but I revealed to him about two years ago my affiliations with the women's suffrage movement and their newspapers. He thought it essentially a social damning, and the only way to repair such a blow to the Lucilfer name would be to have me marry off to a rich woman. I met Mary-Anne about three weeks later—and, yes, she was quite lovely.  A fine, smart, young woman."</p><p>Questioned Mila, "If she was so lovely, then why did you leave her?"</p><p>"I never said I left her."</p><p>"Then why did she leave you?"</p><p>"Well, for the record, I did leave her."</p><p>"Somehow, I do not believe that." Mila covered her smile and giggle with her hand.</p><p>"It's true, I promise. I'm getting there." He shook his head in amusement, pushing the stray hair away from his face. "As I was saying, she was a lovely woman. She and I liked to read together, we often went to the museum and the symphony—did a lot of high-society things, put on a lot of shows for the public eye. However, she thought my pursuit of journalism was 'selfish and useless,' though she was the one living off of her father's money. That did hurt, of course. It was one thing to hear that from a father whose opinions have never really gotten to you, but it's another thing to hear that from the woman with whom you plan to spend your life."</p><p>"Understandably so."</p><p>"Indeed. I suppose I could have dealt with her lack of support for my career. It wasn't constant badgering and degradation, after all. However, it came to a close when I learned that she was pregnant. Mary-Anne had had... relations, so to say, with another man—I never found out who. I suppose the right thing to do would have been to stay with her; it isn't easy being a single mother for countless reasons."</p><p>Mila countered, "She violated your trust; I do not think that you are at all responsible for what happens to her after she does such a thing."</p><p>"I suppose not. But, you know, it did feel selfish. I felt like I was leaving a woman out in the cold all because I was unable to handle a bastard child. Even if it weren't true, it still felt that way."</p><p>"You are a good man, Chrollo. You deserve someone who will treat you as such, and someone who does not deserves none of your concern."</p><p>He smiled just then. "I'm glad you think that."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Letter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The flowers were all gone now. That was the only thing Mila noticed upon entering her room. It was possible that Felix had taken them out when she was gone, she thought—though it didn't really matter. All that mattered was that they were gone, and that she had her table space back. As removed her promenade blazer, she felt the cashmere scarf brush across her skin, tickling the baby hairs on the back of her neck. She shivered and slipped the scarf off; her fingers pulled across the garment, a smile spreading across her face.</p><p>A voice in French said, "I'm surprised you haven't noticed me yet."</p><p>"Oh, dear God," Mila yelped, turning about and searching the room.</p><p>In the corner, in a small, white armchair by the bookcase, she found Hisoka. He held an envelope in his hands and a grim expression. Her hand now on her chest, Mila flopped onto her bed and sighed loudly. As much as she loved to see the man, it was strange of him to simply enter her room while she was absent—and even stranger for him not to announce himself when she arrived. He looked up from his lap and brushed something away from his eye. It was then that Mila noticed that he was just seconds away from crying.</p><p>"What's wrong, Hisoka? Why are you in here?'</p><p>He sniffled. "I... I couldn't be in my room."</p><p>"Why? Do you want to talk about it?"</p><p>"You're a good writer, right?"</p><p>"I like to think so." She turned on the bed so that she was facing him.</p><p>"Do you think you could help me write a letter?"</p><p>"To whom?"</p><p>He extended the envelope her way. "Read this."</p><p>Mila's eyes lit up in surprise. She took it in her mind that Father Pierre was likely a member of the church at which Hisoka had stayed as an adolescent, simply because he now lacked any affiliation with church—so would have no reason to contact any clergyman. She reached over the bed and slipped the envelope out of his warm hands. Up-close now, she saw that Hisoka's cheeks had reddened from being wiped down. He wore a tweed vest which lacked a breast pocket for his handkerchief; Mila set the envelope on the bed momentarily, went to the nightstand to retrieve her handkerchief, and approached Hisoka. She grasped his hand and pulled him towards the bed. At first, she wondered if he may fight her advances to assist; as she brought the handkerchief to his face, however, she realized that he had grown so melancholy as to not care at all. She dabbed at his swollen, tear-stained face with one hand and removed the letter from the envelope with the other.</p><p>In neat cursive handwriting, entirely in French, the letter read as follows:</p><p>Hiel,<br/>     If you're reading this and, additionally, you recognize the town of Moreaux and the name Father Pierre, then I should hope that this letter has fallen into the correct hands. I have found that there are several Hiels (two with the surname de Moreaux, which I hope and assume you have taken) living in England, where I am sure you have immigrated; but, as a result, it is now all the more difficult to pick and choose which address corresponds with the man whom I want to receive this letter. I have chosen this address hoping that it is the correct one, God willing, praise be to our Lord. If it does not correspond with the correct man, I request that you read no further and, instead, send the letter to the other Hiel de Moreaux living in England. This is of the utmost importance and urgency.<br/>     Assuming that, now, this is the correct Hiel, I shall state my business. To contextualize, the day that Sister Abreille learned of your decision to leave town marks the only day I've seen her so heartbroken. And it is true that she wanted you to flourish, with or without the church, but it is also true that she loved you like a mother loves her son. I do not mean to blame you, as you could not have possibly known to what extent she cared for you, and I pray to God that you do not finish this letter with that impression. Thereafter, however, Sister Abreille began to fall in and out of illness—God has willed, illness which could not be washed away by prayer.<br/>     Especially within the last year, her condition had worsened so that she can now barely stand, walk, or eat. We have said our prayers, praise be to our Lord Jesus, but it is evident that her time with us is running out. Sister Abreille has acknowledged this and, as her final request, bade me to find you and ask you to come home so you may pay her a visit before she passes. You needn't reply to my letter if you decide to return to Moreaux; if you decide against visiting, please reply so that I know and may inform you when she passes. <br/>     Our Lord, Jesus Christ, be with you, Son. <br/>          -Father Pierre Clemonte de Moreaux</p><p>Mila folded the letter and slipped it back into the beige envelope, her expression blank. She watched as Hisoka stared straight ahead and slipped his hand over hers on the bedspread. Her heartbeat grew faster and louder as she thought about what Hisoka was giving up here. He had a chance to see the woman who raised him—in all ways but biologically, his mother—just before she died, and he was going to give that up? As it ran through her mind more, she grew angrier and angrier. Not for a second would she have considered giving that opportunity up if she had it with her mother.</p><p>"Are you that selfish?" she asked suddenly, staring hard at the bathroom door. She knew that looking at Hisoka would make her cry.</p><p>He gulped. "Pardon?"</p><p>"I don't understand why you're not jumping at this opportunity." </p><p>"Mila, I just need you to write—"</p><p>"And you're not even going to write it yourself?" Mila scoffed. "Atrocious of you. Sister Laurente spent years feeding and clothing and caring for you, and it was one thing for you to leave after deciding you were all grown up—but she wants to see you now, on her deathbed, and you're saying no? For what?"</p><p>"We are not having this discussion."</p><p>"No, we are. Come on, Hisoka; if it were me and my mother, there would be no hesitation."</p><p>He replied, "This is different."</p><p>"Not different enough to matter. I will help you write this note, but I plead you tell me why you are refusing Father Pierre's request.. I must know that you're not refusing for the wrong reasons."</p><p>"Even if my reasoning is wrong, it's still my reasoning."</p><p>"Yes, but you're not the only one whose feelings are involved here. What, are you afraid of her or something?"</p><p>Hisoka slumped onto the bed and shut his eyes tightly. "Perhaps I am afraid—how audacious of me. But it wouldn't be unreasonable, yes? Mila, I abandoned that woman, and I am damn sure I broke her heart when I did. Were I to face her now, I am sure her last words would be aimed so very ferociously at me, and I could not bear it."</p><p>"Oh, Hisoka, it's..." She sighed and shook her head. Slowly, Mila slipped her shoes off and scooted towards the middle of the bed. Her fingers pulled through Hisoka's hair gently, brushing his fringe away from his pale forehead. "Can I tell you a story?"</p><p>"I've already read the Grimm's fairy tales; I'd be surprised if you could produce one which I haven't heard."</p><p>She replied, "That was a poor excuse for humor."</p><p>"I find I'm too upset to jest."</p><p>"Understandably so. But to my story... I was fifteen when my parents and I moved to England, and almost immediately we all took up jobs at a coat factory—different floors, albeit, but the same building. My father worked on the fourth floor, my mother worked on the fifth, and I, on the second. We were there for just under a year when my parents approached me and told me that I would soon marry the baker's son. He was a brute who liked to push the younger children around and yell at his parents and all sorts of nasty things, and I told my parents that I wanted to go to school before marrying. God, there was a huge argument about it; my mother was furious, and my father sided with her naturally. I stormed out and didn't come back until next morning, but, when I did, my parents and I didn't say a word to each other. We left the apartment and walked up to the coat factory, went to our respective floors, and didn't even say 'goodbye' or 'I love you.'"</p><p>Almost immediately, Hisoka's heart tore, for he knew where her story was going. He opened his eyes and stared at the grey ceiling, feeling the tears drying away from his eyes. His hand went to his chest, feeling it beat slowly and ache at the sound of Mila's voice. It was neither shaky nor upset—simply devoid, and that was what Hisoka thought may kill him.</p><p>"There was a fire around noon—it started at the fourth story, just two floors above me. I ended up jumping from a window into a lilac bush, remaining unharmed. Fifty other people hadn't been so lucky, and my parents were among them. I had to identify their bodies a few days later; my father had burned alive while escorting the other women to the elevator, and my mother had also jumped out of a window, much higher up than myself."</p><p>"Dear God."</p><p>It was then that her breathing shook just a slight bit. She held it in, though not well, and played it off as if it were a simple sigh. Mila lay down beside Hisoka and shifted to her side. He collected her in his arms, allowing her to rest his head onto her shoulder, and twirled his fingers though the loose hairs from her braid. They sat silently for what seemed like hours to them, not saying a word nor uttering a sound. It would have been disrespectful, Hisoka believed, to even shift his thoughts away from the tragedy involving Mila's parents. </p><p>"I would like to come with you to see Sister Laurente," Mila whispered at length.</p><p>Hisoka hummed softly. "Why on earth would you like to do that?"</p><p>"The day I had to identify my parents' bodies, I would have given anything to have someone beside me."</p><p>"It won't be a pleasure trip," he persuaded. </p><p>Mila inched closer, pressing her body against Hisoka's side. "Yes, I know."</p><p>"Very well, my dear."</p><p>The room dimmed as clouds began to set in slowly. A warm haziness set over the two, letting them drift away from the world like two drifters on the open sea. Mila could feel the rising and falling of Hisoka's chest, that steady beat of one, two... one, two.. one, two... Despite the harsh images of her father's charred corpse and her mother's shattered legs, she felt a certain calmness in Hisoka's arms. Perhaps it was the way he pulled his warm fingers through her hair, or the way he kept his other hand around her back to hold her close. </p><p>"May I tell you something?" she asked him. "It's somewhat of a secret."</p><p>"A good secret or a bad one?" he asked drowsily.</p><p>"Bad, I'm afraid."</p><p>Hisoka jostled a slight bit, his attention being called towards her. Now, more awake, he replied, "Very well. Go ahead."</p><p>"If I tell you this, you mustn't tell anyone else. It must stay between us."</p><p>"Of course. What is it?"</p><p>Mila sighed, feeling her fingers shake and her heart race. It felt as if it were something of which she should have been ashamed—and, as she lay with Hisoka in that moment, she couldn't help but worry that her secret would change how he saw her. Perhaps his perception of her character and her career would change so drastically that he would refuse to associate with her thereafter. Nevertheless, she gathered her thoughts and readied them in her throat:</p><p>"My publisher has been forcing me to have sex with him."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Orpheus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Did you think I wouldn't hear you enter?"</p><p>Mila stepped forward and removed her lace gloves. She set them on the wire table and watched Illumi, his back turned to her, as he watered a patch of wildflowers. It was a grayer day (though grayer days had become the norm as they entered late April), and yet Mila found strange the way that the atrium was now no dimmer than it had been the previous time she'd entered. The same humidity lingered in the air, morphed together with the smell of wildflowers and the rawness of once-packaged soil.</p><p>"No, I assumed you would," Mila replied. "I only wished to disturb you as minimally as possible."</p><p>"By speaking, you are disturbing me."</p><p>So clear was the bitterness in his voice that Mila was tempted to shoot back a snarky reply; however, she had come for a reason, and so she would stick her plan like moss on a tree. "That was not my intention. I came here to... I came here to apologize. I am sorry for being so angry with you and speaking so harshly. I have thought about what you have said, and I realize that you meant no ill intent. It was a miscommunication on my part, and I am sorry that I reacted without an understanding of what you truly meant."</p><p>The trimming of the clippers came to a sudden halt. Mila held her breath, wondering if Illumi might take the opportunity to lash out at her. She watched the way his muscles tightened through his dress shirt. He did have a lovely build, and though Mila felt shameful for taking notice, she couldn't stop herself from observing. She remembered the scrawny, bony Illumi she'd fallen in love with as a teenager—and it shocked her to really notice how much that had changed. She knew Illumi swam and ran to keep trim, but she hadn't realized the results until now.</p><p>At length, Illumi set the clippers down and turned. He looked Mila up and down for a second. Then, slowly, he closed the distance between the two; he removed his gloves and tossed them onto the table as he passed. Once he came closer, Mila looked up at him with a racing pulse. Illumi's hand reached up just as their chests bumped together. His hand went to her jaw, and he brushed his thumb upwards to her cheek. His hands were cold but strong, and Mila found herself closing her eyes. She thought that, if she looked any longer, she might begin to blush furiously.</p><p>Illumi stood over Mila, hoping that someone would enter and interrupt. He even waited—perhaps not just for a third-party interruption; perhaps he waited for Mila to say something. Neither event came. He cursed in his head, wondering if he was allowed to look at Mila the way he did and knowing he wasn't. But, in spite of himself, Illumi kept looking at her. And he couldn't help it. I am the Orpheus to her Eurydice, he thought despairingly. It was perhaps the slight blush of her cheeks; or the way her lips so slightly parted as she inhaled, exhaled... inhaled; how she held herself, so real and steady despite the surrealism which she invoked in Illumi. Indeed, every one of Mila's features was delicate but shameless. </p><p>Eventually, Illumi sighed softly, his chin against Mila's forehead. "Forgive me for my harsh words."</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>Mila's finger's tangled with Illumi's, and she let herself drift closer to him. Illumi gently pressed his lips to her forehead, and backed away slowly, leaving the front of Mila's body cold and vulnerable as the slight breezes passed from window to window. Illumi returned to his clippers and continued to snip stray leaves. Mila followed and sat on the edge of the flat at which Illumi was working. He gave her a side-eyed glance.</p><p>"Tell me about these." She brushed her knuckles against the flowering shrub Illumi was clipping.</p><p>"Nettle-leaved hortensias—also known as Hydrangea hirta, native to Japan. It prefers acidic soil, partial shade, and a cool, wet habitat."</p><p>Mila said, "I am impressed that you are able to list that without any notes."</p><p>"In fairness, I can't do that with just any plant—only the ones to which I tend here in the atrium."</p><p>"Even so, it is a lot of information. I am stupid like that; I can not memorize anything to save my life."</p><p>"Don't sell yourself short. That you don't memorize well doesn't mean you're any more or less smarter than me."</p><p>"What else would there be to define intelligence?"</p><p>Illumi set down his clippers once again and sat down on the stone flats. "Well, there is emotional intelligence—which, by the way, I am severely lacking. If one can sympathize and empathize well, and if he can tell what people are feeling by observation, I would call that intellect. And there are scientists who keep extensive notes of what they find because they don't memorize well either—but they are able to draw conclusions from the data they find at any second, little memory required. Overall, I would define intelligence as one's ability to form connections and draw conclusions, not to memorize what he finds."</p><p>"I have to agree. But then I suppose I wish I could memorize better than I could empathize."</p><p>"No, you don't. Believe me; I've been there. You'd want to empathize if you knew you couldn't." Illumi laughed slightly. "I wish I were better at it. I'd trade memorization for empathy in a day."</p><p>"I simply can not see what would be so bad about not empathizing—especially for you. You have some dozens of people who respect you because you have been able to build your own company alonely—"</p><p>"Alone, you mean."</p><p>Mila said, "Oh, yes. Alone. But I mean that you have not gotten to where you are in your life through empathizing with people—you have gotten there because you could memorize things a-and figure things out well. Empathy is a useless skill for someone like you."</p><p>"In part of my life, yes, I suppose it is. But, Mila, you have to understand that I am more than a businessman. I like connecting with people, and I want to form relationships."</p><p>She chuckled. "I have seen you talk to people; debatably, you do not want either of those things."</p><p>"I don't want to connect with people who have nothing with which to connect. But it's different for people I have things in common with or those to whom I wish to talk. I very much like Chrollo and like to connect with him; I like Hisoka, as often as I chastise him for his mere existence... And I... I  like you very much, and I love to connect and talk with you."</p><p>"That is kind of you. I enjoy your company as well."</p><p>"I hope so." Illumi looked down at his lap. "I hope you know that I'm not the only one who likes having you around."</p><p>Sarcastically, Mila replied, "Well, I have been under the assumption that Chrollo and Hisoka hated me."</p><p>"Yes, them too, but I meant the staff. They've been happier, or in a better collective mood, since you've arrived."</p><p>"I do not see why that would be so. Little difference can one person make in a household."</p><p>Illumi shook his head. "Not at all. You connect with them, and you're fun to be around. Having someone to wait on and clean for who isn't so bland as I am is refreshing. It brightens their spirits. Frankly, I appreciate it."</p><p>"You are not bland."</p><p>"Oh, but I am. I realize it, and I have few qualms with it in the case of employer-employee relationships. I do little to entertain, except on a rare drunken evening with Chrollo; I am not a decorative nor an interesting man. On the outside, looking in, I eat, work, and sleep—and that is all."</p><p>"You say that as if we are not standing in a garden which for which you care completely. You have interests."</p><p>"Not as many as you."</p><p>Mila scoffed. "I write, and that is all; I fear I am narrow-minded in my hobbies. Either way, we are separate people, and my having more interests than you does not mean you are boring or bland. I should never be your benchmark for comparison."</p><p>"Perhaps I want to compare myself to you," Illumi replied. "I look up to you."</p><p>"Do you really?" She looked over at him. "With fear of seeming crass... Why on earth would you do that?"</p><p>"I believe we've circled around to our conversation on empathy. I want to be more of a people-person, and you are a people-person."</p><p>She stood and grasped Illumi's hands, pulling him to stand with her. "Then you need to go and meet people! You must go... to a marketplace, or a-a beach, perhaps."</p><p>"Both sound dreadful."</p><p>"How do rich people entertain themselves?"</p><p>"Besides the symphony?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Well," Illumi began, "I suppose they view polo matches, go dancing, have dinner parties—et cetera. But none of those work with me."</p><p>"Why not?" Mila squeezed his hands slightly.</p><p>"The community of the rich is not a bachelor's circle, and though I am wealthier than the lot with which I associate myself, I rarely am on the guest list for lack of a partner."</p><p>Mila scoffed once again, throwing Illumi's hands down. She paced around the table. "Why are rich people so strange in their customs. 'Eat with this fork so not to be a slob; do not drink white wine at the symphony to seem like you have taste; always wear a corset so your body looks unrealistic'—and now 'be married so you may have friends'? It is all so silly."</p><p>"You're telling me. I thought having money would be enough." Illumi sat back on the stone flat and watched Mila's skirts sway as she walked about the courtyard.</p><p>"I will tell you what."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>She looked at him and grinned. "Hisoka and I will be traveling to France in about five days—I hope you have been made aware."</p><p>"I have not. Whatever for?"</p><p>"His adoptive mother is sick—but that is not my point. My point is this: once I return, and all is well with Hisoka, you may use me to pose as your significant other so you can meet friends."</p><p>Illumi's eyebrows scrunched together. "What do you get out of it?"</p><p>"Does it matter? It is a favor more than anything."</p><p>"I could introduce you to a few authors whom I know attend certain events."</p><p>Her eyes flared open. "Never mind. This is less of a favor and more of a deal. Do we have a deal?"</p><p>"We have a deal." Illumi extended his hand with a chuckle. "You somehow always manage to make me do business on my free days."</p><p>She shook his hand. "I am a good negotiator."</p><p>"You've done no negotiation whatsoever."</p><p>"Then you are weak." They both began to laugh.</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Her Secret</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You asked to see me?" Annabelle asked, stepping onto the pavilion platform at the edge of the manor's garden.</p><p>Mila, who had originally been sitting on the bench, her back turned, looked over her shoulder. She moved over to give Annabelle room. "May I speak to you in confidence about something?"</p><p>She sat down and rested her hand on Mila's. "Of course. But are you sure you want to talk to me? I'm just a servant, not your best friend..."</p><p>"I am aware. But the fact of the matter is that I do not know if my friends in London might understand. You see, it is about Illumi."</p><p>"Has Master Illumi done something to hurt you?"</p><p>"No, not at all," said Mila. "But I fear I have been caught in a tight situation. You see... I can make little distinction between my feelings about Illumi, Chrollo, and Hisoka."</p><p>Annabelle stayed quiet for a moment. The two women watched from beneath the pavilion as the clouds overhead gathered. They were likely in for a stormy night, though it was possible that the clouds would just slightly miss the manor. Annabelle was tired of the rain. Often she found that it made her sad, the dreariness and the cold; and as a woman already prone to sadness, she was not fond of anything that furthered that. At length, she released a sigh and looked over at Mila.</p><p>"Romantic feelings?" Annabelle asked.</p><p>"Yes, those."</p><p>She was shocked, to be frank. Her eyes went wide, but she grasped her composure just enough to reply. "I understand. You have feelings for all three men?"</p><p>"Possibly."</p><p>"Explain them to me. Outline your feelings for each respectively." She locked eyes with Mila. "I can tell this is really upsetting. I hope you know that we will figure this out together."</p><p>"That is kind of you. Thank you." Mila smiled, then looked over the gardens. </p><p>"Start with Illumi. You mentioned him first."</p><p>"Well, I hope it is still a secret that Illumi and I were in love when we were younger, around sixteen or so. I was the scullery maid for his family, so he saw me about as often as I did his laundry. I would enter his room to pick up his laundry thrice weekly—and, one day, he was sitting on the bed with a book. He was never in his room before then, but after that first time, he was always there. Eventually, he began to greet me by name and, after two months, we were visiting with one another in secret from his mother. Of course, the rest of the staff knew, but no one ever said anything to Madame Kikyo.<br/>"Illumi was quite different then. He used to have us ride into the village nearby on horseback so we could attend the festivals. We would dance in the streets and eat free food until dawn. We would go swimming in the indoor pool and have midnight picnics by the pond a half-kilometre away from the estate—all kinds of things like that. But just before I was to turn eighteen, Madame Kikyo invited a young woman over and introduced her to the staff as Illumi's betrothed: Mademoiselle Amelia Whiteford, the daughter of a minister of Parliament. I did not give Illumi any time to explain; I simply left. And, now that I am back, I find that I feel no different about him than I did when we were adolescents."</p><p>Annabelle pointed out, "But I have never heard of a Ms. Whiteford."</p><p>"I suppose they dissolved the engagement."</p><p>"That's the only way that makes sense. Could you see yourself marrying Master Illumi?"</p><p>Mila shrugged. "I do not know. I have offered to be his proxy partner so he may claim a social standing, and during this time I suppose we will act much like a couple, but... I have not thought about it in a long time. As a girl, I certainly could have."</p><p>"Very well, let's keep that in mind. Now, Chrollo, yes?"</p><p>"Chrollo." She nodded. "He is attractive and he smells nice; he gave me his scarf, so that's how I know. We talk about books. He read my first chapter the other day and helped to edit it. We connect well and are both passionate about journalism and literature—and he believes in female equality."</p><p>"All good things."</p><p>"I enjoy his company and his intellect. He seems more... in-touch and personal than Illumi."</p><p>"And Hisoka?"</p><p>Mila sighed. "Call me indecent, if you so desire, but I would enjoy Hisoka's evening company more than anything at the moment."</p><p>"It would be sinful of me to judge."</p><p>"You understand better than the church seems to understand."</p><p>"Do you feel anything for him outside of sexual desire?" Annabelle asked.</p><p>"I do. I can trust Hisoka to be gentle with me, and we can confide in one another very personally. He makes me feel safe and warm, even when I am at my most vulnerable."</p><p>Annabelle paused shortly, mulling over Mila's responses. By and by, and she eventually responded, "I could never make this decision for you... but I would suggest that you test the waters with all three. Flirt with each, make small moves, insinuate interest. As tension grows, or doesn't, you will learn for whom you feel more genuinely."</p><p>"I will be going away with Hisoka soon; that will be an amazing opportunity."</p><p>"Indeed. Almost perfect, as a matter of fact."</p><p>Mila reached out and embraced Annabelle. "Thank you so much. I am so happy that I could confide in you. I simply feel so isolated with my feelings, and I needed to let them out."</p><p>"I understand completely." Annabelle said. She pushed Mila back, grasping her shoulders. "May I tell you a huge secret?"</p><p>"As huge as my rendezvous with three men?"</p><p>"Bigger."</p><p>Mila nodded, straightening herself solemnly. She could see a fearful look in Annabelle's brown eyes. This was huge, whatever it was. Part of Mila wondered if it were illegal. Whatever the matter, Mila reminded herself that she would not judge at all. It was wrong to judge someone for their sins, and she would not lay claims to the title of 'hypocrite.'</p><p>"Do you remember Wilde's jailing?"</p><p>"1896?"</p><p>"'95. Do you know why he was jailed?"</p><p>"'Gross indecency', as they refer to it." Her eyes widened suddenly. "Are you a h—"</p><p>Annabelle clamped her hand over Mila's mouth. She whispered, "Hush! Do you want all of England to know?"</p><p>Mila pulled her hand away. "I suppose that would be bad," she whispered. "I had no idea..."</p><p>"Are you going to report me to the authorities?"</p><p>"Of course not. I would never announce your secrets. I also think it is wrong to jail people for their sexual interest."</p><p>"You see no problem with it?"</p><p>"I do not see it as a problem any more than I see myself having extramarital liaisons as a problem. Are you courting a... a woman, then?"</p><p>"There's a milkmaid whom I meet in town on Sundays—the one I sat with when we went to church."</p><p>"The pink dress?"</p><p>"Yep. Her name is Eden."</p><p>Mila gasped. "My, she was gorgeous. I am happy for you."</p><p>"Thank you. We hope to save enough money to move buy our own small farm further north, where we will live outside of the constant public eye."</p><p>Suddenly, Mila brought Annabelle into another embrace, gripping the fabric of her dress tightly. Shocked, Annabelle stiffened, but then she relaxed into the hug. Mila could feel Annabelle's heart racing, and a wave of excitement washed over Mila. She sighed. </p><p>"Thank you for trusting me."</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. The Aprons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The town of Moreaux was actually quite large in area, but most of it was devoted to local farmers and hunting grounds. The actual downtown area, at which Hisoka and Mila had just arrived, was only two square kilometres in size, if Mila were taking her best guess. The roads were unpaved and mucked up with manure from the carriage horses. As they exited their carriage, Mila noticed that she, or the extravagant carriage itself, had drawn the attention of spectators on the shop porches. Two men and a woman sitting on the porch of the General Goods Shop watched over a game of checkers. Mila gave them a smile, but they all looked away as if hoping she hadn't noticed them. Across the way, two young boys on bicycles passed with great, wide eyes.</p><p>The idea that this carriage was a once-in-a-lifetime sight for the people of Moreaux was not too outlandish to Mila. She remembered her life in the slummed parts of Lyon as a girl and the fact that a spectacle such as a nice carriage was enough to make the whole district stop and stare for a moment. It was not too different in this case, though Mila never thought she would be the one at whom people would gaze.</p><p>Hisoka paid the carriage man and sent him on his way back to Paris. Carrying his and Mila's bags in hand, he stepped alongside his partner and gave her a grand smile. "Lovely to be back home, you know." He came closer and whispered, "By the way, avoid English as much as possible; the townfolk never took too kindly to foreigners."</p><p>"If someone makes fun of my accent, we are going home."</p><p>"You don't sound different enough for them to care. Just be glad you don't talk like an Englishwoman now." He gestured her up the road. "The church is at the end of the street, but I believe Father Pierre will be too busy to have me. We should simply take up at the inn and find a bite to eat."</p><p>"I shall trust you as my tour-guide, Hisoka. Lead on."</p><p>The two made their way to the in and checked themselves in. The reservation, out of convenience (as everyone would recognize the name Hiel de Moreaux), was made under the name Hisoka LaPlante.</p><p>"You don't look like locals," commented the innkeeper. "Name's Robert, by the way."</p><p>"Nice to meet you, Robert. I'm Hisoka; this is my wife, Mila."</p><p>"Lovely to meet you both. Honeymoon, by chance?"</p><p>He shook his head. "Been married for three years now; we're just visiting an old friend."</p><p>"Three years and no kids? Looks like she's got some work to do."</p><p>Hisoka smiled. "We've both been working in Paris. That leaves quite little time for children at all."</p><p>"I bet she's better off in the house. That's where the wife ought to be, you know."</p><p>Mila scoffed. "Exc—"</p><p>"Why, yes, I suppose so. At the moment, however, I suppose the best place for both my wife and I to be is in our room. It's been quite the journey today, you know. We've come from Lyon."</p><p>"On these roads, that's quite the ride. Of course. Room 201. You're actually the only ones in town, so it should be a quiet stay. Enjoy the room, Sir."</p><p>"Thank you very much." Hisoka tipped his hat and turned towards the stairs. "Come along, Darling."</p><p>Her knuckles whitening, Mila hesitated where she stood. She looked at the innkeeper, a thin and ugly man, as he returned to the ledger in front of him; then she looked to Hisoka, who was now taking his first steps onto the creaking staircase. She huffed suddenly, ruffled her pale green skirts, and followed behind Hisoka.</p><p>Their room, on the third floor of the in, sat at the end of the hall on the third floor. Upon entering the room, Hisoka set the luggage cases onto the floor at the foot of the bed and, exhaust exhaling out of his mouth, flopped onto the mattress. It made a loud creak and thump as he sprang on it, so he bounced two or three extra times to test it again.</p><p>The room was lovely, with polished wooden floors and a paisley wallpaper. Though small, their room was complete with a large, antique bureau, a queen-size bed, a vanity dresser, two night stands, and a little arm chair by the window. The door to the bathroom, which had been left open, revealed a sparkling porcelain bathtub and a tall mirror. The windows in the bedroom faced at the perfect angle to watch the sun go down—and if one looked outside of the window directly, he could see the church where Hisoka had been raised.</p><p>Mila entered the room and slammed the door shut. "What in God's name was that about?"</p><p>"Pardon?" Hisoka tilted his neck to look up at her. "We can ask for a new bed if you dislike the squeak."</p><p>"No, not the squeak. What was that—with the innkeeper? 'Your wife ought to stay in the house with the kids'?"</p><p>"I didn't say that; Robert did."</p><p>"But you allowed it."</p><p>Hisoka finally sat up. "What else would you have liked me to say? Mila, it was mere small-talk, and saying anything otherwise would have put us in quite the bad spot in town."</p><p>"Hisoka," Mila slumped down into the arm chair in the corner, "I... Do you honestly believe in that nonsense? That... That women should be confined to childcare and housekeeping?"</p><p>Hisoka's gaze softened as he looked the woman up and down. She played with her skirts and kept her eyes to the window as if she couldn't bear what she was sure his answer would be. Hisoka let out a sigh. "Of course I don't. I suppose I've worked far too long in the theater to believe that. I don't know where my career would be without women."</p><p>"Women having helped your career does not mean that you don't think of yourself as superior."</p><p>"But my assurance should confirm that," Hisoka replied. "When I was younger, I suppose I did believe such things—that the girls in town couldn't do the same thing as the boys, or that women shouldn't work or read or write or what-have-you. It was something I learned as a boy. But I mention the women of my career because, through their education, I've come to unlearn those ideals. I don't believe that men thinking less of women is as common as you seem to think."</p><p>She seemed to have snagged onto a parcel of relief with his short speech, and for that Hisoka was also relieved. Mila pushed a fringe of her bangs away from her eyes and gave him a curious look. "What makes you say that?"</p><p>"I've rarely seen any mistreatment of women from the men in my circle—the London thespian circle, I mean. From my perspective, prejudice has been limited to small towns like Moreaux."</p><p>"Well, I've never seen a child go hungry, so child starvation must not happen—at least, not in the big cities."</p><p>Hisoka furrowed his eyebrows. "Mila, that's not the same—"</p><p>"But it is relevant." She sat straight in the armchair. "Hisoka, I'm a relatively well-educated woman; I am a published author; I am a former journalist and certified educator. You could say I'm in a very nice social standing, right?"</p><p>"Right..."</p><p>"When I was in my first year of college, I walked into the lecture hall for British Literature 101. I was the only woman there. Class began, and the professor immediately looked me in the eyes and said, 'You're in the wrong place, young woman. I don't teach girls. Go home.' And I did. I left, and I missed my first day of a class for which I paid. The next day, I went back and was able to request a different British Literature professor. The one I received thereafter never called on me, even when my arm was the only one raised in a room full of only 40 people. I was the only woman. He would have rather given his students the answer than allow a woman to be right. Imagine that.<br/>"And when I was in the process of publishing my novel, my main editor, a woman named Loretta, told me I needed to change the name on the book. It would never sell if the author's name was a woman's. I am A.R. LaPlante so not to make men uncomfortable with my ability to be good—to be better than them. When I have told people I am a published author, the A.R. LaPlante, I have heard that this was impossible; 'women can't write.' <br/>"Legally, I am allowed to teach language arts at a university level. I am legally allowed to be a professor. No university in London will hire me, despite my credentials. Why do you think that is? Why do you think my professors would not teach or call on me, or why I could not put my name on my work, or why I can not teach in that godforsaken city?<br/>And why am I not allowed to vote still? I've been a citizen for four years, after all. I pay taxes, I contribute to the economy simply by existing, and politics certainly affects me, as a citizen. So why do I lack enfranchisement in Britain?"</p><p>Hisoka stayed silent for a long time, what felt like hours to Mila. She could feel her pulse racing and racking around in her body. The thought of that professor's face when he said he didn't teach women ran though her mind; she imagined his gangling features, his sagging skin and warted nose. Her blood began to boil. Her eyes stuck blindly to the curtains swaying in front of the window as the wind billowed into the room.</p><p>At length, Hisoka inhaled sharply. He wiped his face of ignorance and gazed over at Mila. "I didn't realize how... how being a woman put people at such a disadvantage. I'm sorry I disregarded what you were saying."</p><p>As if in a daze, her eyes still on the curtains, Mila murmured, "You're a man; I understand why you did."</p><p>"Just know that not all men are like that, Mila. Chrollo, Illumi, myself—we're not all horrible."</p><p>Mila sighed. "But enough men are like that so that it affects my daily life. Enough men are like that so that I am disenfranchised, and so that I can not teach as I desire, and so that I can not use my own name, and so that I can not learn." She leaned back in her seat restlessly. "Enough men believe that I am less so that I am treated by the government as less—and so that, subconsciously, I feel that I am less. And when men like Robert say things like, 'She should stay at home' or 'It's a shame she's not a mother,' that only perpetuates this feeling in me, the feeling that I am doing wrong by existing outside outside of an apron."</p><p>Just then, it began to rain so softly that the two almost didn't notice it. But the air in the room was filled with a cool dampness, and the drapery came to a rest as the wind slowed. And all of the little boys mucking in the dirt outside, and all of the little girls carrying bushels of apples through the streets, disappeared into their homes. They would sit on the floors of their homes, gathered around as their fathers read short stories to them; and perhaps they too would almost not notice the rain at all.</p><p>At length, Mila stood and approached Hisoka. She wrapped herself in his arms and let him fall back onto the bed—because, as much as he angered her, she wanted to feel him holding her. She breathed in his gentle scent and told him, "Just because you do not understand doesn't mean you can not help."</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Island in an Ocean</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The church in Moreaux was the only lavish-looking building in the whole town. It sat at the end of a block, watching over the village with its towers, all three or four stories high. The towers stuck out like old tombstones in a graveyard—each standing as if to mark all the old, dead, bodies of long-gone peals from the silver bells. The red brick was so dark and smooth that it chiseled away any appearance of holiness, and one looking upon the building would have thought anything but a sanctuary. Even the inside, Mila found, was eerie and menacing, and it filled her with the fright that the Devil himself lurked in the shadows of the dark, desolate pews. Upon Hisoka's arm, she approached the alter with a shivering uncertainty, her free hand clasped over the rosary beads around her neck.</p><p>"Father Pierre," Hisoka called out, catching the attention of the man at the alter as he read from the Bible.</p><p>The old priest, clad in long, white robes with golden accents, looked up from his readings. He was thin and frail, with sagging cheeks and profound smile lines. His eyes were a kind, calming see for Mila, as she looked upon the unfamiliar man and found a solace in the sureness that he knew God, and God knew him. He wore a monocle, but the eyepiece popped away from his eye as he raised his brows in shock.</p><p>"Hiel, God willing—is that you?"</p><p>Hisoka nodded and stepped onto the predella. "Indeed. It's good to see you."</p><p>Father Pierre embraced the tall man in a long, warm hug. Meanwhile, Mila knelt before the crucifix in the back of the hall for a short period, said a prayer, and then stood. She observed Hisoka and Father Pierre in silence, understanding her role on the trip. In secret, she was mere moral support; publicly, she was Hisoka's doting wife, and she would play her part so not to upset any of Hisoka's acquaintances (or the townsfolk in general. After all, they were sharing a room, mind you).</p><p>Today, Hisoka had worn his hair back and put on one of his cleanest, least-wrinkled shirts. His beard had begun to grow out after just two days without shaving; it was quite visible, despite its bright red color. Mila had gotten the warm pleasure of tying his tie for him earlier that morning, and while it was a small and dumb thing, she appreciated the closeness and the domesticity that came with such an act. It made her somehow proud to see Hisoka freely interacting with Father Pierre, especially with the knowledge that he had treated Hisoka the worst of all the clergy during Hisoka's childhood.</p><p>The men broke their hug and conversation, and the attention then went to Mila. She brushed down her navy blue skirt, which she had paired with a grey shirtwaist and a black scarf to cover her hair. She smiled towards Father Pierre and extended her hand.</p><p>"Father, may I have your blessing?"</p><p>He crossed himself and put his hand over hers, allowing Mila to kiss the top of his hand. "May our Lord, Jesus Christ, be with you, Miss."</p><p>"Thank you, Father." She clasped herself back onto Hisoka's arm for show. "Hiel has spoken so much about you. It's an honor to meet you, Father. I'm Mila de Moreaux." As she said it, she liked how it sounded.</p><p>"I had not known Hiel was married. Lovely to meet you as well. I hope you've been keeping our boy safe and healthy, God willing."</p><p>She laughed. "I try my best; he's stubborn at times, you know."</p><p>"I can imagine. I thank you both for coming to visit when you did." He crossed himself. "By the will of our Lord, Sister Abreille has fallen into a much worse condition as of the recent days. She will not eat, and it is reaffirming our fear that she has so little time left with us."</p><p>"I'm glad you informed me, Father," Hisoka replied, resting his hand on Mila's waist.</p><p>"It was by her request that I found you, Son."</p><p>"Then when can I see her?"</p><p>Father Pierre shook his head wistfully. "She had a fit this morning... We thought it would be best to leave her to rest for the evening."</p><p>"Has a doctor seen her?"</p><p>"Yes, multiple. Most have called it hysteria," he replied. "But I don't believe hysteria has caused her inability to swallow, stand, and speak."</p><p>Mila gasped, "Goodness, that sounds horrible."</p><p>"Indeed. God has willed, however, that her affliction be incurable. We may only keep her comfortable."</p><p>"I suppose you're right," Hisoka said, tapping the stubble on his chin. "Is it possible for me to visit with the others?"</p><p>Father Pierre's face slumped downwards then. "I hope you don't mean Father Guillaume or Sister Mathilde."</p><p>"Indeed I do."</p><p>"I'm afraid they passed—perhaps five years ago. I'm very sorry, son. The only one left here is Father Antoine, whom I brought to the church after Sister Mathilde passed."</p><p>A heavy silence befell the hall. Mila held Hisoka's arm tighter as she felt his posture sink ever so slightly. It was strange to her, being in a room while faced with the passing of two people she had never met—yet, though she had not known them, she felt a sinking sadness in her chest. Maybe it wasn't for the fact that she did not know them, but certainly it was because other people had, and she realized then that she was so unrelated to the people in this town—and even to Hisoka himself—that she found herself feeling like the sole island in a vast, blue ocean.</p><p>Hisoka coughed suddenly. "Goodness, that is difficult to hear."</p><p>"I'm very sorry, Son."</p><p>"No, it's quite alright. It simply comes as such a shock to me; I was not expecting it." Mila heard the fake brightness in his voice. "But this Father Antoine—who is he?"</p><p>"He's a younger man, probably your age. Very new to the clergy, but very bright as well. I was hoping a nun might relocate, but he was the only one willing to leave his location, and I certainly couldn't teach Sunday school and deliver Sunday mass."</p><p>A door opened towards the left side of the hall, and from the shadows emerged another man—Father Antoine, Mila assumed. He was a handsome young man, with clean, blond hair and a slightly sad face, but Mila thought he may have been one of those men who always looked a certain way. Illumi, for instance, always looked angry. Chrollo always looked amused. This priest had a face that made Mila think he just always looked sad.</p><p>"Ah, Father Antoine—come here," said Father Pierre, gesturing the man over.</p><p>Father Antoine knelt momentarily before the crucifix on the wall, turned, and smiled at Mila and Hisoka. "Who are these fine young people? Looking to unify in the name of God?"</p><p>The three laughed, and Hisoka shook his head gently. "It would be a little late for that. I'm Hiel, and this is my wife, Mila. Sister Laurente was my caretaker as a child."</p><p>"Oh, you've come to visit then?"</p><p>"Indeed they have," answered Father Pierre. "Though Sister Abreille's episode may have come in the way for a moment."</p><p>"Oh, not as we thought. She greeted me just moments ago when I went in to give her water."</p><p>Mila commented, "I thought she couldn't speak."</p><p>Said Father Pierre, "The illness fluctuates in intensity. Generally, she does not utter any words."</p><p>"This is true. As a matter of fact, Father, I came here to ask you about what she said. She told me something felt different today, though I wasn't sure what it meant."</p><p>"Maybe she felt Hiel's entrance."</p><p>Father Antoine chuckled. "Our Lord works in mysterious ways."</p><p>"Would it be alright if I went and spoke with her?" Hisoka requested.</p><p>"I suppose so. She's through those doors; second door on the left."</p><p>As Mila and Hisoka had agreed upon, Mila's presence on the journey and even in the church alongside him served as moral support. Mila wasn't sure if Hisoka would have the courage to walk in alone before they had arrived, so she assured herself that she would remain on his arm for the entirety of their time in Moreaux—unless asked to depart, of course. So, naturally, she stayed at his side as their gazes lingered on the double doors to which Father Pierre had shown them. Hisoka took a step forward after a moment, his breathing heavy—and Mila followed.</p><p>Then Father Antoine rested his hand on Mila's shoulder, so to stop her, and said, "Perhaps it would be best if he went alone."</p><p>There was a pause, during which Mila's eyes switched between Father Antoine's dark eyes and Hisoka's widened stare. Hisoka coughed. "Is there any reason why she can not follow?"</p><p>"I believe your wife, a new presence, may shock Sister Laurente—and we wouldn't want her to fall further ill."</p><p>He scoffed. "I don't think that—"</p><p>"No, it's alright," interjected Mila. "I'll stay behind."</p><p>"But I—"</p><p>"Hiel, you'll be okay. You don't need me here."</p><p>"I would like Sister Laurente to meet my wife, seeing that she is a large part of my life. At a later day, may she accompany me to visit."</p><p>Said Father Pierre, almost sympathetically, "Of course, son."</p><p>Gently, Mila pressed a kiss to Hisoka's forehead. "I'll be here waiting for you, Darling."</p><p>And though she and Hisoka both knew they were playing a false marriage, Hisoka felt the love and the assurance in her voice. He looked down at Mila's smiling eyes, his heartbeat slowing. Before, he had felt so clammy and vulnerable as he thought about entering Sister Laurente's chambers, and he knew Mila would be his only point of solace. Though knowing she would not be with him made him jittery, it was also calming to realize that, wherever she was, Mila was with him.</p><p>So, at length, he let go of her arm slowly, lingering on the touch of her fabric. "I'll be back shortly, my love."</p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Cookies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger Warning: This chapter contains minorly graphic descriptions of sexual violation/rape</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Do you think it will rain?" Mila asked as she and Hisoka stepped out of the inn and into the muddy street.</p><p>Hisoka stopped and looked up at the sky. "I don't think so, though I've been wrong before."</p><p>"Perhaps we should buy a few cookies. I love a nice cookie on a rainy afternoon."</p><p>"And if it does not rain, then will we have nice cookies on a sunny afternoon?"</p><p>"We'll have to save them," replied Mila as she wrapped her arm in Hisoka's.</p><p>"You say that as if I have any amount of self control, my dear. Would you like me to hold the basket?"</p><p>"No, thank you. Once it gets heavier, I may pass it off to you."</p><p>The two headed down the street, passing the old, dark church and a few houses which hit Hisoka with such a nostalgic pang that he wished he could stop at all the porches, knock on their doors, and ask their owners if they had been well since he had last lived in Moreaux. There were the Bouhiers, a young couple who had just moved in a year before Hisoka left as an adolescent; he saw that they still had a small sign with their name on the front of their porch, and it appeared that they had set up a general goods store. There was Anna Renou, whom Hisoka, at one point, had kissed beneath the apple tree out back of the bar at the corner; he saw her on the porch of Charcuterie de Renou with a young boy in her arms, watching the townspeople pass by. He remembered the rumors that she had been raped; they had circled around in the months just before Hisoka had left Moreaux, but no one had ever caught the criminal.</p><p>Hisoka looked down at Mila and scratched his temple. She was close to him, within whispering range certainly. Of course, he knew the burning question he wished to ask would be horribly timed if asked at the moment, in the middle of the street; thus, he refrained, and he and Mila continued towards the marketplace in a silence laced so gently with one-sided awkwardness. By the way Mila continued to lick her lips and adjust her collar, Hisoka realized that she knew he had something on his mind. He didn't dare ask her if she were alright.</p><p>They bought bread. They bought a small bottle of milk. They bought the cookies for which Mila had pressed Hisoka. Eggs, a jar of honey, some apples and grapes; a black hat for Hisoka; a creme handkerchief for Mila. They discussed very little, save two portions during their adventure: once, Hisoka insisted that they buy honey; shortly thereafter, Mila asked which color handkerchief suited her best. But, other than that, it had become clear that there was one thing on Hisoka's mind, and perhaps Mila had grown fearful of his thoughts.</p><p>They entered the hotel room, and Mila immediately set the grocery basket onto the bed and darted towards the window. She unclasped the lock and shoved open the windows with a bang. "Hisoka, I was right! I knew I heard rain from the stairwell!"</p><p>He chuckled. "I've never known someone to be so excited for a storm."</p><p>"I can't tell you how dry I've been feeling since we've arrived. It's been a week since I've felt muggy air."</p><p>"You've grown to accustomed to England, Dear."</p><p>Her hands gripping the windowsill, she looked back with a large, fresh grin. "But that's beside the point. Don't you see it raining now?"</p><p>"I do." Hisoka came up beside her her and firmly rested his hand on her waist. He inhaled the warm air flowing into the room. "It smells nice."</p><p>"A splendid afternoon for some cookies, don't you think?"</p><p>"I must agree," he replied blandly.</p><p>Mila turned and gazed up at Hisoka, her eyebrows furrowing and her eyes scrunching up. She inhaled roughly. "Has something been bothering you? You've seemed distracted all day."</p><p>"I..." Hisoka stepped back.</p><p>"Was it something Sister Laurente said last week? You never did tell me how that went."</p><p>"Sister Laurente was fine—it's not that."</p><p>"But something is wrong."</p><p>Hisoka shut the window calmly, bringing Mila further into the room. As he thought over his words, he made distance between himself and Mila, leaving her to stand at the window as he backed into the chair beside the bathroom door; he felt it necessary, seeing that, when considering his question, she and he were alone in a room together.</p><p>"Hisoka, you can tell me. Did I do something?"</p><p>He said, "I wanted to ask you... I wanted to ask you about your publisher."</p><p>"Oh..."</p><p>"How often, and why? Has he been—you know—beating you? Like—"</p><p>"Goodness, no. No, not at all." She sat on the bed and gripped the skirt of her dress. "We meet once a month. When I went into town earlier last month with Chrollo, that was the last time. We went upstairs, and I let him undress me and take me, but I do not struggle or yell or fight. It's uncomfortable, yes... but I haven't been hit."</p><p>The calm in her voice was eerie to Hisoka's ears—especially as he imagined the act in his head. It was impossible not to think about Mila, a woman he loved and cared about, put in such a horribly uncomfortable position. And as the weeks had gone on sans explanation, Hisoka had conjured thoughts and fears about Mila being forced into harmful positions against her will. He took his first breath of fresh, light air since Mila had first involved him in her secret.</p><p>"But why?"</p><p>"Why haven't I been hit?"</p><p>"Why does he force you to it? What binds you to this deal? You're already published, after all."</p><p>"He tells me that, if I say no, he will pull my book from the market and blacklist me. But it's really not all that horrid, Hisoka. You don't have to worry."</p><p>"You said he's forcing you to have sex with you."</p><p>"He hasn't physically forced me."</p><p>"Just because he's not pinning you down in a fight or rendering you unconscious doesn't mean that it isn't sexual assault. It's illegal—I know it; in what way, I'm not totally sure, but I know it is."</p><p>Mila demanded, "But you're not going to tell anyone. I'm not taking legal action."</p><p>"Pardon me, but that seems very unlike you, Mila."</p><p>"It is really no issue. There are women out there who do get physically forced into the deed, and there are women who are pinned down or rendered unconscious. I'm lucky in that I am not, and I will not take legal action when there are women who have it far worse then I do."</p><p>Standing from his chair, Hisoka asked, "Do you honestly think that your publisher—your agent—isn't physically forcing other women into intercourse? I know how men like that are; if he extorts you in this way and you don't speak up, God only knows what horrors he performs over aforementioned 'other women.'"</p><p>"And what if I do speak up? What if I sue him? Then what happens?" Mila cried out suddenly, her teeth gritted, and her eyes furious. "Then the whole of England realizes two things: one, that I am dirty and filthy and disgusting for having such interactions extra-maritally; and, two, that I am not a good enough to make it as an author without sleeping my way to the top of the market. If I remain complacent, then I keep my platform to speak out against further injustice; if I bring my own to light, then I lose any and all reputation I have. I can't do it—and I won't do it, Hisoka. I won't."</p><p>"You're wrong about this."</p><p>"So what if I am?"</p><p>"Others get hurt."</p><p>"Then let them speak out. Let them do the talking, but I won't. And you won't either."</p><p>Hisoka sighed. "I won't."</p><p>"Thank you."</p><p>Mila fell back and lay on the bed, her limbs and joints slipping into limpness. Her heart pounded in her chest, so she rested her hand on her breast in hopes that feeling her heart may slow it down. She could feel Hisoka's gaze avoiding her specifically; awkwardness had clung to all of the dirt and dust in the air. Mila wanted to end the conversation, and Hisoka knew that; she knew he wanted the opposite. It's not his place to reopen this discussion. Not when he knows how it upsets me. And she thought about her career for a moment; she thought about how, as she approached her second book's publication, it was evermore present that the name LaPlante had been built on lies and bribery. A sigh dripped off of her lips.</p><p>Hisoka tilted his head back. Dryly, he asked, "What's on your mind?"</p><p>"My career."</p><p>"What about your career?"</p><p>"That I don't deserve it."</p><p>He scoffed. "Well, that's nonsense. I've read your work."</p><p>"Even if it is good, it hasn't gained any publicity fairly. I'm a fraud."</p><p>"Not another word about that. I won't hear it."</p><p>"You can't stop me."</p><p>"Mila, you're not in the wrong here; your publisher is. Besides, you were published before you were put in this mess with him, right? That must show you do have talent."</p><p>Mila felt both defeated and unconvinced. She retreated, giving Hisoka a nod—but she didn't really believe him. It was irrational, and she knew it, but she couldn't help herself. The look she gave Hisoka as she stood ended the conversation for good, and she knew he had realized it. She went to the counter and gently picked up a cookie from their basket.</p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. No Such Lie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Good morning, Sister."</p><p>As Mila followed Hisoka into the room, she saw a bed in the back corner, shrouded in darkness. The grey light coming through the window wasn't enough to keep the room well-lit, and there were no candles or lamps to provide light—at least, not until Hisoka removed a small candle from the top drawer of the bureau. He grabbed a match from the drawer as well, lit the candle, and set it on the nightstand beside the bed.</p><p>Mila grabbed the chair from the corner and put it beside the chair already at the side of the bed. She sat and looked over Sister Laurente. Her eyes flashed wide with astonishment, grazing over every part of the old woman's body as if it were hung in a museum. Her face was paler than the moon, dry like a desert, and nearly as wrinkled as a shirt in the bottom of the laundry bin. Her thin, colorless lips folded over one another and, at the corners, opened just slightly enough to allow small drops of drool to slither down her chin; she had one eye open and the other partially shut, and refrained from twitching. The Sister's open eye crept over to Mila and watched her carefully; Mila stared back, but she couldn't hold her gaze for too long without feeling so horribly judged—almost as if it were the Lord himself staring her down.</p><p>"I wished to visit more, Sister, but it appears that we will be leaving very shortly—within the next day or so, I expect," Hisoka said, sitting down. Mila knew he was lying in that they had nowhere to be and were in no rush at all. "That said, I was able to convince Father Pierre to allow me to bring my wife along. This is Mila, my wife of three years. I'm sure I mentioned her."</p><p>"Hiel has told me much about you, Sister. I'm honored to meet you."</p><p>She didn't say anything in reply; though Mila expected such to happen, as Father Pierre had warned them that today was Sister Laurente's nonverbal days, an awkward silence befell the room as Mila realized she had little else to say. Hisoka had not told her how this meeting would run with one nonverbal participant. She clasped her fingers around Hisoka's warm hand, hoping he would make the next move. And, fortunately, he picked up on her signal.</p><p>"As I may have mentioned, I wished to bring her along to our earlier visit, but Father Pierre didn't want to overwhelm you. Seeing that this is our last day in Moreaux, I... I wanted you to meet her—or, at least see her, I suppose."</p><p>Mila looked up at Hisoka, surprise washing over her face at the sound of his voice, which usually was sharp, heavy, and honeyed; not it was nearly childlike, as if he were confessing his wrongdoings to his mother. Then again, Mila realized that she sat before the woman that was, in essence, Hisoka's mother. Regardless, it astounded her how this woman's presence, whether or not she was sentient, had changed Hisoka's entire demeanor. He began to bounce his leg up and down. He stammered more, waited longer, thought over his words more frequently.</p><p>Again, Hisoka began, "It's been lovely visiting home. Strange, yes, but lovely still. I've been so surprised to see all of these old faces—like the baker? I forgot his name, but, by God, he hasn't changed a bit. His hair has gotten grey, I suppose, but other than that, he's remained the same. That said, I don't think anyone has recognized me. I understand why that would be so, but it initially surprised me; then again, I have turned a few heads in confusion, but no one yet has asked if I was the little boy who used to run around town in a grain sack."</p><p>He continued to talk for a good hour or so, his topics ranging from how he and Mila had met (the false account, of course) to his travels and his career. Mila said little—except for whenever Hisoka would mention something about their married life and asked rhetorically for confirmation. But she didn't mind remaining silent through the meeting. It was fulfilling enough to hear Hisoka talk about his life, even if some stories were false. And she liked seeing Hisoka as happy as he was, getting to sit down with an old friend and chat, though the conversation was one-sided. She realized that conversation was, at times, less about what was said and more about who one was with.</p><p>Mila and Hisoka stayed for two hours in total, deciding around noon that it was time to leave and go have lunch. Hisoka bade Sister Laurente a slow goodbye, and before he left he gave her a necklace with a green gem in the center. He kissed her forehead softly, seeing that she had fallen asleep and wishing not to wake her, and then he gestured Mila out of the room.</p><p>The couple returned to the inn in silence. And it had occurred to Mila as they walked home that the entire town had also fallen into a content silence, as if everyone had already done their shopping and their cooking and cleaning and work for the day, though it was only noon. Even as she stared out of the window of their room, her unpacked clothes on her lap, she watched the town as it took its unprecedented mid-day nap. Part of Mila wished to stay just another day or two just so she could remain submerged in the activeness of the townspeople, knowing how enamored she was with strangers and their lives.</p><p>The bathroom door opened and closed. Hisoka said, "I anticipate that we will have another evening in?"</p><p>"If the bread is still good, why leave our cozy room?"</p><p>"You have a point, my dear introvert." He chuckled.</p><p>"I'm far from such; I'm merely an observer."</p><p>"Of whom? The streets are empty."</p><p>Mila kept her eyes on the muddy street below. "You needn't look at something directly to understand it. Watching an empty street helps me understand those who would walk it."</p><p>"In what way?"</p><p>"I'm not sure yet—but I know an epiphany will come to me when I most need it. Likely as I write."</p><p>She felt Hisoka's hand grab her chin and gently turn her face towards his. He had lent down to meet her gaze closely, and she realized at this proximity how wild and demanding Hisoka's eyes were. They were a hot, bright amber tone. He smelled of fresh wildflowers and a hint of his usual cologne; for this reason, Mila lengthened her breaths so to take in his scent for longer durations.</p><p>With a rasp in his voice, he asked, "So what may one learn by looking directly at something?"</p><p>"Enlighten me, please." Mila shut her eyes and raised her chin.</p><p>"Perhaps the thoughts of a gentle sin she should have realized a forever ago."</p><p>Hisoka kissed Mila softly. He felt her hand move up to the back of his neck and the way her fingers tangled in the edges of his hair. Her lips tasted distinctively sweet, like a berry tea or a sugar cookie. An shiver busted out from Hisoka's chest, spanning up to his shoulders and down to his arms, into his feet. He wasn't sure of his motives—what had driven him to approach Mila and demand such a thing from her. Perhaps it was the knowledge that tonight would be their final night sharing a bed. Regardless, since knowing her personally, Hisoka felt he had grown shy in his wishes to kiss or hold this woman; but as she pressed further in, he realized that, in her eyes, he wasn't as unworthy for such a gift as he had thought.</p><p>Mila slid her folded clothes to the ground, where they then crumpled like napkins. Her arms around Hisoka's neck, she sighed and said, "I like how your kiss feels."</p><p>"How so?" He pecked her lower cheek, swaying their bodies away from the view of the window.</p><p>"You kiss like someone who feels no entitlement to my touch. You feel like you cherish touch itself."</p><p>Hisoka's stomach twisted as he kissed her neck softly. "Why not cherish the very thing that makes me feel human?"</p><p>"Did you say that merely so I would remove my blouse? Because, truthful or not, it is working, I hope you know."</p><p>He slipped out of his shirt with haste, feeling the rush of humid air encompass his skin. He paid attention to the way Mila's hands slid around his torso, up his back, and to his shoulder-blades, her muscles tightening with every kiss he deepened against her neck. Keeping one hand still at her cheek, Hisoka began to fiddle with the buttons at Mila's collar, then at her chest; she aided him in removing her blouse and unclipping her undergarments. Hisoka's heavy, hot breathing against her ear as she worked her arms out of the sleeves caused a soft gasp, followed by a moan, to drip off of her lips like honey. Hisoka felt the heat in his chest rush down to his groin.</p><p>"I find no complaints in how my words have encouraged such an act," he replied hazily. "But, Darling, know that there's not a single lie I could bear to tell you."</p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Queen-Size Bed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Mila, Hisoka, brilliant to have you two back safe and sound." Illumi entered the billiards room, wiping away the exhaustion from his horseback ride away from his face. "And I trust that the trip fared well?"</p><p>Hisoka shook his friend's hand and said, "Considering the circumstances, it went quite well, I'm glad to say. Lots of rain—though that much is to be expected, I suppose. When does autumn begin, remind me?"</p><p>"Just two weeks, I believe." He kissed the top of Mila's hand.</p><p>"Ah, splendid. It was lovely to be among old friends, though I can't say I was as widely recognized as I'd hoped."</p><p>Mila chuckled. "Were you hoping for a parade in your name?"</p><p>"That wouldn't be unlike him," chimed Chrollo just as he struck the cue ball with his billiards stick.</p><p>"Not in the least. But, I'll admit, some recognition would have been nice."</p><p>"You did nothing to reintroduce yourself. How can you expect them to acknowledge you—and after nearly ten years, mind you—when you do not initiate any conversation or mentioning of your past?"</p><p>"Hush, you."</p><p>Mila and Illumi took to the back table, under the grand bay window, for a cigar. Illumi lit one for Mila over the candle at the center of the table and watched the smoke get swept away in the night air flowing out of the window. He pressed his own cigar to his lips and inhaled the thick, rich smoke. It felt like the taste of a hot, bitter cup of coffee rushing through his veins. It was exceedingly indulgent, and this was why he so rarely smoked, but Mila was also indulging, and in the moment he had wanted to unite with her on some front. She looked away from Hisoka and Chrollo's pool game, gazing right over at Illumi. Her eyes thinned slightly, and a smile crept onto her face. She blew a large, hazy cloud of smoke into Illumi's face and, as he saw just before the smoke hit his eyes, flashed him a wink. </p><p>Mila looked back between the other two men at the table. "On the topic of parades, we passed through town on our way back and learned that they are holding a festival on Monday. I was wondering if we all could go together."</p><p>"It sounds lovely, but I may have to pass; I'll be meeting with the theater for a new show all of next week." Hisoka made his shot; he gave Chrollo a teasing grin when he made his ball into the pocket. </p><p>"Chrollo?"</p><p>"I'm afraid I'll be working in London."</p><p>"Oh, dear. What is your excuse, Illumi?"</p><p>Chrollo commented, "Not an excuse, Mila; if I return early enough, I promise I'll accompany you."</p><p>"It's best that he should; I haven't the time for village festivals." Illumi tapped his cigar against the ash tray, avoiding eye contact with the woman across from him.</p><p>"But you have the time to play cricket with me for five hours two days ago?" </p><p>Illumi sighed. "That was one day—"</p><p>"Didn't you—" Chrollo stopped.</p><p>"Didn't I what?" challenged Illumi.</p><p>"I... Nothing. If you desire so adamantly to stay behind, I won't force you out. Mila, you and I will go have a splendid time just the two of us, if you'll allow."</p><p>"Oh, fantastic! I have not gone to a festival in ages; this will be so delightful."</p><p>"I hope it's everything you wish." Chrollo and she exchanged smiles. "Goodness, what time is it?"</p><p>"I believe it is..." Hisoka checked his pocketwatch. "It's a quarter to midnight."</p><p>"Have we really been playing billiards that long?"</p><p>"I suppose so. Will you be retiring?"</p><p>"No, I don't believe so; I haven't a thing to do until two tomorrow."</p><p>Mila set her cigar in the ash tray and patted off her lap. "I may have to retire, however. It is my strong desire to hike tomorrow, and hiking during such a... Oh, Hisoka—vague de chaleur?"</p><p>"A heatwave, mon petit chou."</p><p>"An eatwave."</p><p>"Non, il y a un H; c'est heat."</p><p>"h-eatwave."</p><p>"Oui. Heatwave."</p><p>"Eatwave."</p><p>"Non. Sais-tu comment dire les H's?"</p><p>"Oui, oui. Bien sûr. Mais voici une chose malaisée."</p><p>"C'est comme mon nom!" Hisoka gasped, pressing his hand to his forehead.</p><p>Mila stood. Exasperatedly, she declared. "Je l'abandonne! I will be hiking early tomorrow, when it is not hot, so I wish to rest up now. Goodnight, you all."</p><p>"Perhaps take a candle; the servants have, no doubt, turned out the lights this late in the evening," informed Illumi.</p><p>"Allow me to accompany you; you'll have the word before the night is out, Mila." Hisoka set aside his pool stick. "I believe it's time to beat out your little flaws left remaining from your Français."</p><p>"Perhaps I would like my flaws to stay unbeaten. Goodnight, Chrollo, Illumi."</p><p>"Goodnight."</p><p>"Sleep well, Mila."</p><p>Said Hisoka, "You can't bake a cake without beating a few eggs."</p><p>"I have tasted your cake before, and I will inform you that you are a horrible baker."</p><p>Chrollo and Illumi watched as the two squabbled and left the room. As the doors closed, they exchanged confused glances. Illumi stood, assuming that he would take Hisoka's place in his absence, and picked his billiards stick off of the rack. Chrollo gestured him to the cue ball. </p><p>"Your turn, my friend."</p><p>"I suppose it is now." Illumi bent and aimed his cue ball. "Goodness, I'm rusty."</p><p>"You'll pick the sport back up quickly."</p><p>The stick tip clacked against the ball; the cue bounced off of the side, smacked into the 5-ball, and sent it into the far left corner pocket. It went in cleanly so that, when Illumi stood, his posture had become straighter but looser with his pride. Perhaps he wasn't as rusty as he thought. He looked about the table in search of another shot. 7-ball in the far middle pocket. He bent and aimed. </p><p>Suddenly, Chrollo asked, "Why did you refuse?"</p><p>The cue went horribly astray, hitting one of Chrollo's balls straight into the pocket. Illumi flinched, standing straight, and looked up at the stiff man at the other side of the table. "Your turn."</p><p>"Answer my question." </p><p>"In what way does it concern you?"</p><p>"You're rarely so assiduous a man that you're unable to step away for a few hours. And you're not so inhospitable as to turn down an invitation from a female guest in your home."</p><p>"What are you implying, Chrollo?"</p><p>He replied, "It's clear you fancy her. To deny it would portray you a fool."</p><p>"Then assign me a jester's cap."</p><p>"Don't be coy; you only incriminate yourself further."</p><p>"How does denial of falsehood incriminate me?"</p><p>"What good does denying the obvious do you?"</p><p>Illumi flopped down into his chair. "You're an ass, you know. What does it matter if I do fancy her? Our relationship is in the past."</p><p>"So it is true? I knew you two had something together." He leaned against the edge of the pool table. A pang crossed his chest just then; he looked over at Illumi and saw him gazing down at his shoes. "You haven't forgotten."</p><p>"Not in the least."</p><p>"What happened?"</p><p>He brushed the hair out of his eyes, sighing loudly. "When I was sixteen, Mila began working at my family's summer home as a laundry maid. I was never sure what I did that really caught her attention—though I know I used to have her to wash my clothes daily so I could see her when she came to my room to retrieve them. Eventually we began to meet up in secret and go on walks in the garden. This was the year I decided to stay in the country for the winter, so I got to be with her more when my family moved back into London for autumn and winter."</p><p>"You couldn't tell your mother, I assume?"</p><p>"Of course not. I probably should have in time, however; eventually, my mother introduced me to the young girl to whom I would be engaged: the young Miss Amelia Whiteford. She lived on a neighboring estate. I met with her perhaps four or five times—though I intended to refuse the marriage completely. Mila and I had plans."</p><p>"What plans?"</p><p>"She wanted to surround herself with literature; I wanted to own a business. We decided we would move up north to Manchester on my eighteenth birthday, elope, and use the money from my accounts to open our own bookstore. She wanted us to get a cat and named him Professor Fluffypants. We were going to have two children: one boy, Vincent, and one girl, Anne-Reneé. She wanted us to have our own house instead of a tenement; she said that, if we got our own house, we would have to own a queen-size bed, since she'd never slept on one before—and a garden where I would grow fresh vegetables and spices. We planned on sending our children to college, keeping up the shop, and only parting on our deathbeds. How foolish of me."</p><p>"More foolish things have been said, Illumi."</p><p>He jumped up from his seat and nearly yelled, "But I ruined it all, I tell you! I ruined it!"</p><p>"Because of Miss Whiteford?"</p><p>"Yes, Miss Whiteford. I felt nothing for her, yet I was petrified by the thought of telling Mila about this small bump in the road. All it would have done was delay our plans together by a month, but I feared she might abandon me if she thought I had fallen for another woman. So I said nothing.<br/>"But Amelia made a surprise visit one day; my mother brought all of the staff up to meet her. Mila quit that evening and left just an hour later. I could have stopped her. I should have been more forceful. Had I not been so timid, she would still be mine."</p><p>"Have you both talked about what happened since she came to live with you?"</p><p>"No. No such thing has been thoroughly discussed—just books and plants and social standing. I said some crass things relating to our history, and she and I argued for a week or so earlier in your stay, but we have yet to confront the true issue. I don't think we will."</p><p>A silence fell upon the two. There were moments where they looked each other up and down—Illumi examining the man to whom he'd just told his darkest secret, and Chrollo examining the man who shared his affections for the same woman as he. The latter could feel his friend's despair and wretchedness from across the room, like an anchor weighing the entire room down. Feelings of his own guilt clattered around in his head, bringing a crease to his forehead and a slight frown to his lips. As he imagined Mila and Illumi, both adolescents, planning out their future and kissing under the moonlight (all of those horribly romantic tropes with which he was so familiar), Chrollo felt the need to ask himself if he was even allowed to look at Mila the way he did. </p><p>Was he allowed to see her the way he had since day one? And, surely, it was wrong—but how something which felt so right be so wrong? He had yet to find out, but the idea was worth exploring.</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Red Ribbon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Oh, Love, what do you think of the blue?"</p><p>Mila looked towards the end of the rack and saw Annabelle holding onto the end of a pale blue, silk skirt. She shook her head. "It's beautiful, but I do not think blue is very flattering on me."</p><p>"Nonsense; it'd bring out your eyes."</p><p>The shopkeeper looked over and marveled, "And your hair would go so well with it."</p><p>"I was hoping more for a yellow or an orange."</p><p>"You have a bit of red in your hair; how about a bright red dress?"</p><p>"That would not be unreasonable. Though I wear red so rarely... but I suppose that is because I own so few red things."</p><p>"I might have the perfect thing in the back. This is for the festival, yes?"</p><p>"Yes, but we are also shopping for entertainment." Mila grinned at Annabelle. "I still owe you a new skirt for beating me here."</p><p>She laughed. "Never challenge me on horseback, Mila; it'll mean your doom."</p><p>Once the shopkeeper went into the back room to look for the dress she had in mind, Mila and Annabelle continued examining the rack. The ladies had gone out for the day hoping to accomplish running a few errands to sate their need to shed their frugality. Just one day earlier, when Mila had ventured into London with Chrollo (as he was meeting with a friend, and she was searching about for a typewriter), she went to the bank and learned that she had gained a large sum from her publishing company; it occurred to her then that the growth in her book's popularity among college students had likely kicked up as summer came to a close. Upon her arrival home, she had informed Annabelle of the news and insisted that they go to town the next day. </p><p>"If you're willing to spend a little extra, I recommend this dress. I think you look lovely in green."</p><p>"How much?" asked Mila, observing the dark olive green promenade dress in her friend's hands.</p><p>"£11."</p><p>She gawked. "For that? That is practically nothing!"</p><p>"I know! Wouldn't it look amazing with a hoop skirt?"</p><p>"I feel I am legally required to purchase it."</p><p>"I'd be furious if you didn't." Annabelle slipped it off of the rack and gently draped it over Mila's forearm. "Hisoka would love to see you in it, you know."</p><p>"I am sure he would; more urgently, I would love to see myself in it."</p><p>Annabelle chuckled. "I adore your mode of thinking."</p><p>The door to the back room of the shop opened and closed, and from the racks of dresses emerged the shopkeeper with a light rose-red dress in her arms. She went to Mila and pressed the dress against her body, hoping that it would already be long enough. She asked Mila her waist size, bust size, and hip size and decided that the next size up would suit Mila's waist and bust much finer. She returned to the back to exchange one size for the other.</p><p>"This is larger, but I believe we will have to shorten the skirt a tad—unless an ankle-length skirt would suit your desires, of course."</p><p>Mila said, "If you will let me try it on, I may decide whether to trim the skirt or not."</p><p>"Of course. The dressing cubby is just this way."</p><p> _____</p><p>The women entered the kitchen through the side door, their freshly-grown produce in little woven baskets which they had strung on thick ribbons to sling over their shoulders. Mila, slipping open the cover of her basket, observed her assortment of cucumbers, tomatoes, bread, honey, and a few small trinkets. She'd purchased matching ribbons for her and Chrollo, knowing he'd have no objections to wearing it if she asked kindly enough. </p><p>Mila pulled the ribbon out of the basket and twirled it in her hands.  She asked, "Do you think Chrollo will like it?"</p><p>"Hm?" Annabelle looked over. "Oh, the ribbon. I'm sure he'll wear it with pride."</p><p>"I know he will wear it; I should hope, however, that it suits his taste."</p><p>"Even if it doesn't, the fact that he might wear it for you should be pleasing."</p><p>"I bought it not for validation, mind you," reminded Mila.</p><p>She chirped, "But it sounds as if you did."</p><p>"Hush, you."</p><p>Annabelle reached to the bottom of her basket and removed a small, wooden box. She opened it up and removed two cigars, handing one to Mila. She and Mila exchanged the matchbox, and the two women leaned against the island counter in a thoughtful silence. Annabelle was reminded that she should expect a letter from her lover regarding their next rendezvous point, though she was sure it would be the festival at five in the afternoon. She huffed out a cloud of heavy smoke and glanced over at Mila's suddenly dampened mien.</p><p>"And how go things with your little romantic debacle?" Annabelle hoped such a lively and dramatic topic may sweeten conversation.</p><p>"Not well, if I am to be honest," said Mila. She relaxed her cigar in the ashtray one final time, watching the smoke swirl upwards and dissipate. "As I further such operations, I find myself even further confused—though not at all by Chrollo, and somewhat by Hisoka. I am bothered by Illumi's... push and pull, so to say."</p><p>"What do you mean to say?"</p><p>"Illumi told me, before Hisoka and I left for France, that he wished not to argue with me constantly, and that I should pose as his romantic partner to gain him a more sociable reputation among his financial circle. As of two days ago, he has refused to go to the festival with me."</p><p>"Did you ask him personally?"</p><p>She shook her head. "I offered such to Chrollo and Hisoka as well. However, I was sure I made clear that my invite was directed toward him."</p><p>"I couldn't say that I'm well-versed in the romantic language of my master, nor that of men at all... but, were it me, I would have refused—thought I your attention may be divided, of course."</p><p>"I am unable to discern whether that should make me feel better or worse."</p><p>She shrugged. "Better if you truly fancy Master Illumi; worse if you're preoccupied with feelings for the other two."</p><p>"Do you think I could be both?" Mila sighed. "I realize I have yet to tell you... Hisoka and I have slept together."</p><p>Annabelle jolted back. "You what?"</p><p>She jumped and covered her friend's mouth. "If you were any louder, the Queen might hear you!"</p><p>"When did this happen?"</p><p>"The first time?"</p><p>"The first time? Have there been multiple?"</p><p>"Only two... yet." Mila backed away and began to turn about the island. "The first time was when we were in Moreaux, Hisoka's hometown. The second was the night of our arrival home."</p><p>Annabelle pushed herself onto the counter and slumped her shoulders. "I cannot believe it..."</p><p>"Nor can I still."</p><p>"Was it... bad?"</p><p>"Goodness, not at all. Best I've ever had, I am both glad and upset to say."</p><p>She chuckled. "I can't say I quite know what goes on in that kind of a situation, but I certainly am glad for you. Though, I must ask, what does this mean for you and Hisoka—I mean, is it purely sexual, nothing more?"</p><p>"I cannot say... But I realize I can control Hisoka's emotions no more than I can my own."</p><p>"Do you think he might have feelings for you?"</p><p>Mila shrugged. "In an effort not to flatter myself, I would say he is just an excellent speaker and an emotionally-charged man. Objectively, I would say there is a good chance he may, and I would not deny him were he to confess... But until I know for sure, I ought never to act too hastily."</p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Extra Candles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A knock came at the door. Illumi looked up from his work desk, setting his pen into the inkwell. With thoughts that Mila were at the door, he closed up his French workbook and tried to jam it into his desk drawer as quickly as possible, requesting just a moment of patience from her. Having been sitting in the dark, he lit another candle beside him and sat up straight.</p><p>"Enter." He coughed for final composure.</p><p>Chrollo slipped through the door. "Illumi."</p><p>"Ah, Chrollo. What business have you? I assumed you would still be working in London."</p><p>"I decided to leave early on Mila's behalf."</p><p>He nodded. "I see."</p><p>"May I pull up a chair?"</p><p>"Of course. But are you not leaving soon? I would think you'd be in a rush."</p><p>Chrollo slid an ottoman in front of the desk and sat with his elbows on the desk, his body noticeably weighed down. "Apparently, her hair is in quite the knot. Besides, I felt my subject matter a slight bit urgent."</p><p>"Oh? Do tell." He leaned back into his chair, tensing and untensing his finger.</p><p>Chrollo sat quietly for a moment, attempting to crowd together a jumble of words he felt necessary to say. He had to wonder how his words might explode in his face, if they would leave him without a friend or without a place to stay in Britain—or even that he might be left with unrequited feelings from the woman with whom he was about to go dancing. But, in just three days now, the guilt had built up and clogged his body so that he thought he might have a heart attack if he were not to release his thoughts. He sighed.</p><p>"I don't want to... make you feel threatened, nor do I want you to feel that I am angry or upset with you. I feel it necessary to state my intentions without implying a sense of ownership over Mila, as my feelings are my own, and hers are her own. You understand?"</p><p>Illumi shifted in his chair. "Go on..." he cautiously replied.</p><p>"Very well. Now I say this: my intentions with Mila are not platonic; I believe she is the loveliest and most intriguing woman I have come across in my life. My guilt surrounding your past and current love for her will not inhibit me from my own pursuit of her affection. And I would like to make it clear that, no matter who she chooses, or if she chooses at all, it should not affect our friendship—as, like I have said, her feelings are her own; it's not about what neither you nor I want, and it is wholly about what she wants."</p><p>The silence made Chrollo's fingers tremble with weakness. Had the ottoman a back against which he could sit, he surely would have flopped backward and clutched his heart; confrontation and conflict were two things with which he was certainly familiar, but he hated any form of confrontation with those to whom he was close. It provided a sense of vulnerability he did not like to reach for himself. He waited what felt like hours upon hours for Illumi's reply, and in his heart he knew it would be disappointing.</p><p>"How long have you felt for her?" he murmured.</p><p>Said Chrollo, "Pardon? I did not hear."</p><p>"For how long have you felt such attraction for Mila?"</p><p>"Difficult to say. Perhaps the moment I saw her—or perhaps shortly thereafter, though I can't be sure."</p><p>"You intend to pursue her for marriage?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"And you left work early and purchased a new tie and insisted upon taking her to the festival so to win her favor."</p><p>"Yes." Chrollo looked down at his dark red tie and nodded.</p><p>Illumi took a long breath. He shut his eyes gently and prayed that, when they opened, Chrollo might disappear; he had to acknowledge the truth in his statement that Mila's feelings were her own, but the part of him that imagined Chrollo and Mila dancing together, perhaps kissing under festival lights, made him feel unwell. At length, when Illumi had decided it was best not to leave the conversation in the open, he sat back up straight and looked Chrollo dead in the eye.</p><p>His voice was low: "I will confirm that this is neither a game nor a war, and that my opinion of you will not change with the outcome, as I value your friendship incredibly. But I remember your past, and I remember the people with whom you surrounded yourself in New York. So let it be said: if you make one slip-up—one false move that even comes close to putting Mila in harm's way, you will not be welcome in neither my house nor my country for the rest of your life."</p><p>"I understand." Chrollo stood and patted himself off. "But don't forget that I have yet to hurt her, but you have already done so." It was a low blow, and he knew it. It's what he gets for reanimating past mistakes.</p><p>Another knock came to the door just as Chrollo was about to exit. Mila's voice came through the wood. "Chrollo, are you in here?"</p><p>He opened the door for her. "I am, yes."</p><p>"Brilliant. Oh, good day, Illumi." She beamed.</p><p>Illumi looked her up and down. God, he hated himself every time he saw her. He hated himself for always stopping and staring and letting all of the air out of the room—but it was too hard to resist. She'd put her hair into two French braids. Two messy, squiggly, dark French braids. She had too much blush on her nose. She wore no shoes, just a sheer pair of tights under her checkered red skirt. Bright red lipstick. He sighed.</p><p>"Good day, Mila. I trust you're well."</p><p>"Indeed, I am." She touched Chrollo's arm. "I am ready now, if you are as well."</p><p>He nodded. "Perfectly ready."</p><p>Illumi saw Chrollo put his hand on her back. He stood and blew his candles out. Noticing that his cufflinks were crooked, he began to fix them and watched as Chrollo and Mila entered their own little world. He wished the two would leave. It was more irritating to watch Chrollo so effortlessly interact with and charm Mila than to have his work and his sense of calm interrupted. Chrollo's words settled in him for a moment; he had hurt Mila, though he didn't want to admit it, and perhaps Illumi's faults had given Chrollo a leg up in this race.</p><p>"I'd have to ask the both of you to leave—not with a dislike of your company, of course, but for the fact that I do have paperwork to finish reading."</p><p>Chrollo kept his eyes on Mila, but she looked up. "Very well. I am sorry for disturbing you; Blanche told me Chrollo had gone to see you."</p><p>"Blanche?"</p><p>"The maid."</p><p>"I thought that was Annabelle."</p><p>Mila nodded. "She's the other maid. You have two; do you recall?"</p><p>"I..." He inhaled sharply. "Oh, yes, Blanche. Of course. Will you be taking the carriage into town?"</p><p>Chrollo looked up. "No, we've decided to walk."</p><p>"And risk dirtying your clothes? It's a two-mile hike."</p><p>"I think it is too lovely out not to walk," commented Mila, turning towards the door. "That said, we should probably go, Chrollo. And I insist you remove your tie."</p><p>"Really? Why my tie?"</p><p>"I do not believe ties are well-befitting for a village festival. One would be best unbuttoning his shirt twice and rolling his sleeves. Additionally, I have for you a gift which will replace your tie shortly."</p><p>"As you wish, I'll do both. Very well, let's be on our way."</p><p>Illumi straightened. "Mila—"</p><p>"Yes, Illumi?" She turned abruptly.</p><p>He took her in once more—parted lips; wide, curious eyes; a hopeful gaze. She was made up of equal parts grace and clumsiness. Today she looked so happy that Illumi thought it might be the death of him. He felt himself pale as she kept peering at him. And though he knew she was waiting for a question or a sentence to slip off of his tongue, all his words and thoughts eluded him. His mouth twitched.</p><p>"I... I hope that—that you have a splendid experience."</p><p>She blurted, "Thank you. I will."</p><p>"Very good... Goodbye."</p><p>"Yes, Goodbye."</p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Nicknames</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mila, weaving through the crowds of people in the streets, had found that there were far more people in the town than she had initially thought, judging mostly by its size and usual business. An easy dozen people filtered in and out of the saloon doors per minute, and the town square was flooded with young children dancing in circles as their gratified parents looked on. Her eyes sparkled, continuously flittering from one object to another. Over the streets hung colorful bunting and bright lanterns, and lining the streets were various stands selling food and souvenirs at half-price. In a daze, Mila pulled Chrollo along to look at the souvenir stands.</p><p>"Would you like a necklace or a flower band, Mimi?" he offered, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. </p><p>"Mimi?"</p><p>He laughed. "I read it in a book—the character's name was Mila, and her friends called her Mimi. I apologize for the slip."</p><p>"No, no..." She tugged on his arm a bit. "It just surprised me. No one has called me Mimi since I was a girl. That was what my parents called me."</p><p>"Oh, my... Should I refrain?"</p><p>"No, please use it. I have not had a nickname in so long."</p><p>Chrollo smiled and rested his hand on her waist. He gestured to the line of stands. "As you wish, Mimi. As I was saying, would you like a necklace or bracelet of some sort?"</p><p>"I have too much jewelry as it is... though that reminds me: I did buy you something earlier today." She rummaged through the pocket of her skirt and, at length, removed a long, red stripe of ribbon. "For this reason, I had asked you to remove your tie."</p><p>"Not because you thought me more attractive without it?"</p><p>She shook her head. "On the contrary, that was why I insisted you roll up your sleeves."</p><p>"Then uprolled my sleeves shall stay, purely for your gaze." He faced Mila and craned his neck down. "That the ribbons match your dress entertains me. Put it on me, Mimi."</p><p>Mila began to tie the ribbon around his collar, feeling her fingers brush against the warm skin on the back of his neck. Though focused on tying the ribbon, she could feel Chrollo examining her face. Her cheeks grew hotter. "There. I hope it stays on, though I can not say that I am the master of tying ribbons."</p><p>"I'll wear it with pride regardless of how it's tied. Now, you so ardently wanted to come, so I must ask what you'd like to do first. A carnival game, perhaps? Or we could look about the saloon."</p><p>She grinned blindingly. "Mon Dieu, I only came so we could dance."</p><p>"Then let's—" Chrollo gasped as Mila swept him off to the center of town.</p><p>It was a large, cobblestone-paved circle with a fountain at the center. As with the rest of the streets, lights were strung around to, in the low light of dusk, set the town center aglow. The elderly people in the homes upstairs had opened their windows and set up around them to observe the festivities gleefully. Chrollo kept ahold of Mila's hand as she weaved their bodies. through the ring, and at some point their popped out into the open part of the area alongside several other young couples, perhaps just younger than themselves, with their faces bright and their arms around one another, bodies bobbing up and down to the beat of the music. </p><p>Mila set her hands on Chrollo's shoulders and began to sway and jump. Shortly, he caught on and began to dance with her. The act made his heart stop and restart so suddenly that he really thought he might collapse. To feel her in his arms, all of her joy and excitement at his fingertips, made his heart spring. And though he could not dance as long as she could, Chrollo had insisted that she keep going so he might watch. </p><p>At length, Mila flopped down on a bench beside Chrollo and rested her head against his shoulder. She sighed heavily and glanced up at him as he smiled. "Dancing with strangers is less fun than with you."</p><p>"I'm afraid my lungs aren't very strong, being an asthmatic," replied Chrollo, "but I'll promise to you the next few dances."</p><p>She gasped. "My, you did not tell me you had asthma!"</p><p>"I'm alright as long as I don't overexert. And I know my limits."</p><p>"Are you sure? I do not want to press..."</p><p>Chrollo nodded. "I insist. Should we find some food?"</p><p>"Of c—wait. Chrollo, you have lost your ribbon." Mila pointed her finger towards his bare neckline.</p><p>"Have I?" He looked down. "Goodness, you're right. I'm very sorry, Mimi. I hadn't noticed."</p><p>"It bothers me none; it was less expensive than a bread loaf. I just thought it suited you well."</p><p>Chrollo stood and offered Mila his arm. The two then started towards the stands for a snack. The crowds of people had thinned slightly after sunset, so it was much easier to see the variety of foods offered; drinks in the saloon, of course, but a multitude of fruit breads, cakes, American hot dogs (which Chrollo had insisted Mila try), boiled cream tarts, honey nut skewers, and many other things—all of which Mila was eager to try. On the other hand, Chrollo insisted that she could not fit all of these things in her stomach if she wanted to continue dancing, not without getting sick, so she limited herself to a hot dog and a bottle of Coca-Cola. Chrollo, similarly, went with a hot dog, but he added on a mug of beer and a small serving of fries from the chip stand. The two took to one of the benches in the middle of the street to eat. </p><p>Mila sighed. "These hot dogs are amazing."</p><p>"They're not my favorite, but they do remind me of home." </p><p>"I realize it is as healthy for me as raw raccoon meat, but it is delicious."</p><p>Chrollo laughed. "I wouldn't be surprised if that was its main ingredient."</p><p>"If you are attempting to make me stop eating this, your efforts are in vain. I could care less its contents." She gave him a coy smile. "Thank you for buying."</p><p>"I hope it might replace the ribbon."</p><p>She shook her head. "If I wanted to give you an actual gift, I would spend at least a shilling. Goodness knows I have the money. I promise that I am unbothered by the ribbon."</p><p>"You may be, but I wish I had it. It was thoughtful and cute of you," replied Chrollo. "If I may,  I realize you are of a sufficient financial standing, but I don't understand why you still stay at Illumi's estate."</p><p>"At first it was on account of my book, as most aspects of my life are. Now, there is the additional aspect of companionship. Annabelle and I have become friends, as well as you, Hisoka, and Illumi, respectively. Once I finish my book, of course, I will be gone—but, until then, I would like to enjoy my time with all of you."</p><p>"Where will you go once your book is finished?"</p><p>"I am unsure. I might return to work at the women's college in London, as I do have a teaching degree. I might open a bookstore and continue to write. Or perhaps I will marry someone random and settle down."</p><p>Chrollo huffed slightly. "Would you really marry a random man?"</p><p>"Of course not; do you take me for a fool? I just mean that, at some point, I might consider becoming a mother, and one would benefit as a mother from having a husband."</p><p>"I do suppose that's reasonable. It never is too late to have children—though I never thought you would want any."</p><p>"What would give you that impression?" asked she.</p><p>"You seem very independent. Don't misinterpret my words; independence is neither a good trait nor a bad one, same as wanting to be a mother."</p><p>"You do not think women must have children?"</p><p>Chrollo replied, "If men needn't have children, why must women. I see it as quite the double standard, and I thought it clear that women are their own people—not just men's wives and daughters and, in this case, mothers."</p><p>"You are wise for a man," joked Mila. "But what are your desires? Do you see yourself as a father?"</p><p>Chrollo looked Mila up and down, smiling gently. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. "I will be whatever my lover asks of me. If she wants children, then I shall be a father; if she wants to work, then I will be a... a house-husband, so to say. I will be flexible as long as I am in love."</p><p>"What a beautiful thing to say."</p><p>"You know I try my hardest." He stood. "I know you've danced all night, but may I ask that you join me for one more?"</p><p>"I would be so delighted."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Bruises</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I must make clear how irritated I am that you've gotten us both into such a... queer predicament, and how peculiar it is that you landed yourself in such a case beforehand." Illumi looked over at Hisoka with raised eyebrows.</p><p>"There was a root; I tripped, rolled, landed. You slipped, rolled, landed. Now we are both in a ditch. Would you ask that recite for you a fairytale now?"</p><p>Illumi replied, "Only a fairytale in which I'm not caught in a ditch. But Chrollo is coming along; he and I were supposed to hike up the hill to the east. Perhaps he can offer assistance. Have you any broken bones?"</p><p>"I'm in little pain, all from the impact. The dirt is harder than it looks, you see."</p><p>"So is your skull, it would seem." </p><p>"Complain all you want; you must admit that, to some extent, this is a little amusing."</p><p>Resentfully, Illumi snorted. "Yes, I suppose it is</p><p>He looked about the ditch with curiosity. He had seen it a few times while horseback riding, as it was just by the exit of the backwood trails, but, until today, it had never posed any sort of threat. It was steep and cylindrical in a way that made the two completely unable to climb his way out—and not to mention the fact that it was an easy three meters deep.</p><p>"Illumi, where are you?" hollered Chrollo in the distance.</p><p>He stood and replied, "Head straight down the trail!"</p><p>Hisoka asked, "What do you suppose we do if Chrollo can not help?"</p><p>Footsteps came beating down the track. Illumi cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Chrollo, we're in the ditch?"</p><p>"Tha ditch? What—" He turned and looked upon the two, his chuckle turning into a hefty laugh. "Oh... this ditch."</p><p>Hisoka said, "For laughing, I wish impotency upon you, my friend."</p><p>"But your mother does not," replied Chrollo, shaking his head at his friend's situation. "Childish, I realize. But, my goodness, how stupid does one have to be in order to come to such a place?"</p><p>"I'd found Hisoka in this ditch and aimed to help him; however, as you'll observe, the ground is quite soft, and it was so that my foot slipped. Now we are both here, and I suppose I am grateful that you managed to catch up."</p><p>"That much is fair, I suppose... but I regret to inform you that I cannot lift much weight at all—childhood illness and all, you know."</p><p>Hisoka chuckled slightly and nodded. "And I have accounted for such in my plan."</p><p>"You had a plan?" asked Illumi.</p><p>"I always do."</p><p>"Very well. Explain your plan."</p><p>"It is as simple as this: Chrollo comes into the ditch. Together, you and he lift me out, as I am the heaviest. I pull Illumi out, as I am the strongest; Illumi and I pull Chrollo out, as he is the lightest and the weakest."</p><p>"Do we have any other ideas?" Chrollo looked over at Illumi. "Going once, twice...?"</p><p>"Nothing that doesn't end with you slipping in anyway."</p><p>As they had discussed, Chrollo dropped down into the ditch with minimal damage—perhaps just a bruise on his knee, but he was fortunate enough to have just barely missed the root by which his shin had landed. Illumi and Chrollo then bent to allow Hisoka onto to step on their hands. They hoisted him up far enough so that he could crawl out the rest of the way. Hisoka stood, dusted himself off, and began to walk away.</p><p>"Hisoka? Hisoka!"</p><p>"Hm?" cooed he. </p><p>Illumi barked, "Where are you going?"</p><p>"Perhaps for some lunch. I'm simply famished,  you know."</p><p>"Return at once!"</p><p>"I'm afraid I can't hear you; why don't you come closer?"</p><p>"Hisoka!"</p><p>Eventually, he trailed off so far toward the house that even his yells in reply were completely unintelligible to the two men still in the ditch. Illumi and  Chrollo waited, hoping he might return momentarily and call off this little joke of his. He did not return. </p><p>At length, Chrollo seated himself in the dirt and stated, "I am beginning to believe Hisoka neglected to tell us that this was written into his plan."</p><p>"How genius you are, my friend."</p><p>____</p><p>"Why, my dear—don't you look brilliant in white."</p><p>Mila jumped, tossing her lipstick onto the vanity before her. She turned on her seat towards the door and sighed heavily. "Hisoka, how rude of you to frighten me so."</p><p>"How rude it was for you to have left me so early last evening." He smirked and stepped forward. "Your hat is crooked."</p><p>"According to Annabelle, crooked hats are in fashion. And I do apologize for that; I was struck with inspiration. On that note, I have finished the thirtieth chapter of my novel." </p><p>"Congratulations. We might toast later if you aren't too busy. But, if I may, where might you be off to?"</p><p>Mila switched to French suddenly: "My appointment with my publisher."</p><p>"What kind of appointment?"</p><p>"What do you think?"</p><p>He nodded, slumping onto her bed. "I see. Are you well, Mila?"</p><p>"As well as I might be for such an occasion. Do I look the part?" </p><p>Hisoka watched as Mila stood and twirled before him. She wore a cream-white dress with lace sleeves and a high-neck collar. It was simple but sweet. Just by her attire, Hisoka would have assumed she were off to tea with family. She set her hat on top of her head, fitting it around her braided bun, and pulled her collar down slightly. Hisoka noticed the vague stain of his bite mark on her skin peaking ever so slightly the collar. Aside from the pride with which it filled him, he thought little of it. </p><p>He stood and rested his hands on Mila's waist. "You do look gorgeous." </p><p>"Thank you very much." She pecked him on the lips and stepped back. "I must be off. Though, as I see you're in your hiking clothes, I ask that you pick me a beautiful flower  from the trails."</p><p>"Not a single flower could compare to you, but I'll bring you the top fifty if it should make you smile."</p><p>"If you might see Chrollo, I ask that you tell him to edit my chapters twenty through twenty-six."</p><p>"I suppose that means I must wrench him from that ditch..." murmured Hisoka.</p><p>Mila laughed. "I dare not ask for what that metaphor stands. Good day to you."</p><p>She went for the door, making sure to flick off the light at the bedside table. Hisoka followed; he assumed that it might be rude to linger in her room for even a second,  no matter how strongly he desired to rest in the soft scent of Mila's sheets or observe all of her clutter. As she had stayed in this room for four months, it had become only natural that she had built up an array of objects on the desk, and he realized that Mila had managed to turn such a boring, plain room into a home. His room, nearly identical in decor, comforted him not nearly to the same extent as Mila's room.</p><p>"Wait, Mila." He paused abruptly. </p><p>She let go of the knob and turned towards him. "Is all well?"</p><p>"I'm not sure if you know this, but I will be leaving the estate in just two days. I do not return until next spring."</p><p>"You're leaving?"</p><p>"Yes. It'll be the start of my theater's opera season soon, and I have been casted already. I wanted you to know ahead of time."</p><p>She looked down at her feet. "Illumi and Chrollo are aware, yes?"</p><p>"They do. This is routine for Illumi anyway. I assumed you were the only one unaware."</p><p>"You assumed correctly. If I may, will we still see one another?"</p><p>He stepped forward and cupped her cheek in his hand. "Our staying on Illumi's estate is not what ties our knot together, my dear."</p><p>"But I worry that we might not meet enough to satisfy how often I wish to see you—especially considering that we now see each other everyday."</p><p>"There is always the option of coming to live with me in my townhouse, if it troubles you so much."</p><p>Mila shook her head. "Certainly or a few nights on occasion, but my work ties me here until I finish my book."</p><p>"Once you publish, perhaps it may be worth considering."</p><p>"I... would very much like that."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Telegram</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hisoka slid the poolroom door open slightly. "Illumi, Chrollo?"</p><p>"Leave, you fool."</p><p>"Get out."</p><p>"You're not still sour about that whole ordeal, are you? I only left you in that ditch for perhaps a half-hour. A mere parting gift, you know." He sighed, opening the door completely and entered the room. "I came to—"</p><p>"Mr. DeMoreaux?" From the shadows of the hallway emerged the maid, Blanche, with a folded slip of paper in hand. "A telegram. It's marked urgent."</p><p>"From whom?"</p><p>"Ms. LaPlante, sir."</p><p>Illumi and Chrollo both stood to traverse the room, their breathing tight as Hisoka held the telegram in his hands. The writing was more scraggly and uneven than usual, and Hisoka's name had been spelled incorrectly. Illumi shooed Blanche away and came beside Hisoka to close the door.</p><p>"Urgent, she said? Quite unnerving; Mila is never urgent..."</p><p>"Hisoka, open it," demanded Chrollo, smashing the end of his cigar into the ash tray.</p><p>With heavy fingers, he began to undo the folds in the paper. Hisoka sat at the edge of the loveseat, sure that the note was out of Illumi's view. He took a heavy breath in, fearing the absolute worst, and read silently:</p><p>Hisoka, <br/>     I understand that you will be leaving within the next few days, but I regret to inform you that I will not be there to see you off. Certain events have occurred so that I may not return to the Zoldyck estate for perhaps a week, though I will write when I have arrived there. Tell Chrollo that the final chapters of my novel are in the the top drawer, along with a pouch containing his payment for editing. Finally, do not look for me; you will not find me. Do not write me back; I will not reply.</p><p>He exhaled sharply. Though not the best thing in the world, it certainly wasn't the worst. </p><p>"For God's sake." Chrollo came over Hisoka and snatched the slip out of his hands. He glanced it over and immediately threw it into the ashtray. "Dammit. It's in French."</p><p>"Well? Is she sick? Has she been kidnapped for ransom? Mugged? Publicly slandered?"</p><p>Hisoka shook his head. "No, none of those," he replied. "Mila will not be home for a week. She says not to look for her, nor to write her. She also asks, Chrollo, that you edit her final chapters, which will be found in the top drawer of her work desk."</p><p>"Why would we look for her? Do you think she is in danger?"</p><p>Though Chrollo and Illumi continued to discuss whatever horrid situations could have befallen Mila, Hisoka stayed silent. He folded his legs and rested his hand under his chin, scratching the stubble very slightly with his fingernails. His eyes trailed towards the telegram sitting in ashes. In any other case, Mila leaving and saying she would not be around for a week would have surprised him—but he was sure that he would not have been unnerved by such a case either. Certainly, his worry came from not only Mila's insistence upon a lack of contact in addition to the fact that she had ventured into the city for her meeting with her publisher, a man whom Hisoka despised intensely. This fact—having created in Hisoka's mind a vague sense of Mila's current circumstances—was enough to make the man spring up from his seat.</p><p>"I need you both to be quiet," he demanded, setting an hand on Chrollo's arm.</p><p>With a crinkled forehead and narrowed eyes, Chrollo said, "And you've decided to speak now?"</p><p>"I know what has happened, but if you're so insistent upon giving me snark—"</p><p>Illumi stopped him, taking a seat on the opposite couch. "Hisoka, ignore him. You have the floor."</p><p>There was a long pause, during which Hisoka had forced himself to sort through his words. He would pick out only what was necessary, knowing the following statements would, if let out, put Mila in some form of danger. Likely not physical, but most definitely emotional.</p><p>"She went for an—an appointment earlier today. I'm not at liberty to discuss her own affairs, but..."</p><p>"But what? Why can't you—</p><p>"I must... I must to leave for London tonight." He picked the note up and handed it to Illumi. "I realize this is sudden, but I need you to make a call or two and track down the telestation from which this was received. May I take Peter and the carriage tonight?"</p><p>"O-of course, Hisoka."</p><p>Chrollo bolted up and grasped Hisoka's arm. "You're holding out. What aren't you telling us? What was the meeting about?"</p><p>"I'm not telling you what Mila has asked me not to tell you."</p><p>"What kind of things would she tell you that she wouldn't tell me?"</p><p>He laughed. "There are a lot of things she tells Illumi and I of which you are unaware. Isn't that right, Illumi? Chrollo, my friend, the world isn't centered around your fruitless attempts to gain her trust, you know."</p><p>"What did you say?" Chrollo snatched the collar of Hisoka's shirt. He pulled him close, teeth gritted and bared.</p><p>Hisoka gave him a sly smirk, daring him to punch or kick or bite. She told me more in bed last night than she's told you in months, and I'd bet my life on the fact. "Are you upset that she addressed her telegram to me and not to you?" he taunted.</p><p>"Bastard."</p><p>"Throwing insults toward me doesn't erase the truth in what I've said."</p><p>"What are you keeping from us?"</p><p>"Chrollo," asserted Illumi. "Release him."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"You are acting like an impertinent child. Are you so selfish to be concerned with your own insecurities over Mila's safety?" He scoffed. "If Hisoka knows something, and he says he can not release what Mila has told him in confidence, then that is between him and her. I don't like this whole situation any more than you do, but this is not about you. Hisoka, do you believe that Mila is in danger?"</p><p>"I do. Emotional, not physical, but danger no less.'</p><p>Chrollo coughed, looking over his shoulder at Illumi. Illumi had, through all this, remained seated, reading over the note himself and managing to stay completely unfazed at the sight before him. Chrollo realized why; deep down, he knew he couldn't hurt Hisoka, and Illumi knew it too. It would have been pointless if he could go through with it. He looked back into Hisoka's cold, amber eyes and threw his collar aside. Clutching the fabric over his own chest, he began to pace slowly about the room, hoping Hisoka might dismiss himself.</p><p>"Is there any information you can disclose?" Illumi asked quietly.</p><p>"To be clear, I'm not even sure if my hypothesis is correct. I'm running on a... gut feeling, so to say. But I will phone you once I have answers."</p><p>"I'll see you off, then."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Garlic and Oil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thunder rattled the windows in Hisoka's foyer. As he stood over his coffee table with a duster, he looked up and saw three separate flashes of lightning, all reaching from different part of the sky. He'd arrived at his townhome just three hours earlier and, as he usually would upon retuning home, began removing the covers from his furniture and them all off. There was little else to do that could keep him well occupied. He could not eat, as there was no food in the kitchen; he could not sleep with the chance that Mila might contact him; he could not read, for he found that reading made his thoughts wander to troublesome locations (mostly on account of the fact that he mainly owned horror and mystery novels). The only thing to do was clean.</p><p>Upon his arrival, Hisoka had made sure a telegram was sent to Mila, having learned her most recent accountable location. He had managed to catch ahold of the receiver, who could only have been twenty or so; he, Philip as he said, had sat with the woman who had ordered the telegram, as she was so clearly in distress. When he offered for her to stay with him and his wife, she declined and assured him that she would be staying near the hatter's shop just down the road. Hisoka requested his own telegram be sent there—urgent, like Mila's.</p><p>Mila,<br/>Though you stated that you would not respond were I to contact you, and I am sure you thought I'd be unable to do so, I must inform you that I am in London early on account of your disappearance. I will respect your request that I not search the streets for you, but I will ask that you come to me for the evening. I am alone, lacking both Illumi and Chrollo at my side, though reluctant and worried they were. Below, you will see my address. Do not think of waking me if you wish to visit; I will be up for the night.</p><p>He realized that, by locating her to send her a telegram, Hisoka had already broken one of Mila's requests, as this was a form of searching for her. On the other hand, he realized that there wasn't one bit of him that was truly willing to respect such a request. If Mila was in danger, and if Hisoka had the connections to at least provide for her a safe space, he absolutely would go over her requests that she be left uncared for.</p><p>He said to himself, "If such makes me a white knight, I wish I could say I care. I think it's irrational of her to ask that I ignore her when she is in danger—or when I suspect she is in danger, at that."</p><p>With a heavy chest, Hisoka sighed and settled down on the chaise. His eyes finally began to droop. Through a hazy, numb-minded eye, he looked about the room, mostly at the lamps and the rain against the window outside. The townhouse was delightfully cold to Hisoka, a man who preferred to sleep in the cool. He took a soft breath in to find that the air had been mixed with old dust and wood and a new, crisp, autumn freshness. Thunder crackled in the distance, getting quieter and quieter as it passed... softer, more distant... quieter.</p><p>Cuckoo! Cuckoo! </p><p>Hisoka sprang up. His eyes raced to the clock on the wall—catching only a glimpse of the stuffed cuckoo bird before it settled back into the face of the clock. Two in the morning, on the dot. My goodness, it was just midnight, thought Hisoka, standing and stretching his back out. He reminded himself of the importance of his alertness on this particular evening. However, it was evident that, if Mila were to show up, she would have done so by now. This realization in mind, Hisoka slumped back onto the chaise, though not intending to drift asleep again; he would see the night through to the day.</p><p>_____</p><p>It wasn't technically searching if Hisoka's reason for going out was shopping. That was what he continued to tell himself throughout his walk from small store to small store; the cabinets are bare, so I have a good reason to be out and about. I am, in no way, breaking any promises I've made. In his hand, he carried a shopping list in tiny, scribbly writing, and he was sure that the quantity of items on his shopping list would have it so that he would have to make at least two trips back and forth. On account of the fact that Hisoka would not be returning to work for the next few days, Hisoka decided he would take his sweet time in all of his endeavors.</p><p>At the corner, he noticed a cafe whose sign out front read: "Café du Petit Ours; Now Open!"</p><p>How careless an idea, naming one's business in French, when the British make so blatant their distaste for us 'snail-snappers,' thought Hisoka.</p><p>The cafe was tucked between Hisoka's favorite tailory and a small bits-and-baubles shop. Hisoka was sure that, earlier last year, to the best of his recollection, where stood the cafe used to be a little sweets shop, but so few children roamed the streets in Hisoka's neighborhood; seeing that children made the best sweets customers, he supposed it only natural that such store might go out of business as quickly as it came into business. In addition to that, as he stepped inside of the cafe, Hisoka found it saddening that the children in his neighborhood were prevented from running about the streets—usually by their strict fathers, presumably members of the gentry—to such an extent that the sweets store should not have ample traffic to remain open. He wished to see more children running about the streets, playing tag and stealing the occasional apple.</p><p>It was a lovely cafe indeed. Small and quaint, consisting of only four tables and a counter behind which the beverages were prepared. The air was filled with the scent of various baked goods and fresh-brewed coffee. Each table was decorated with its own small, blue vase full of bright flowers, mostly purples and whites to accommodate the softness of the rest of the cafe's decor. Hisoka ordered a cup of jasmine tea and a raspberry danish, deciding that he would sit and allow himself a small brunch before continuing with his errands.</p><p>Once served his tea, Hisoka removed his shopping list from his pocket and looked it over, knowing he would come up with one thing or another that he had forgotten.</p><p>Olive oil. Two red peppers. An onion. Cherry tomatoes. Earl grey tea. A loaf of bread. Butter. Bourbon. Sardines. An assortment of spices: basil, thyme, paprika, oregano, garlic, dill, rosemary, salt, pepper. A loaf of bread. A baguette. Spaghetti noodles.</p><p>Most of the aforementioned ingredients would be thrown together later that evening into Hisoka's favorite Italian dish, agilo e olio. It was what his former opera teacher, Signora Marino, would make for him when he was feeling ill; though he had lost the recipe after she passed, he managed to find and copy down another version in a cookbook in Illumi's library. In addition to such being his favorite dish, it had been made known earlier that morning that Hisoka's cook would not be able to service him for a week. With this in mind, Hisoka supposed it would be in his best interest to try his hand at cooking, though Mila had reassured him that he was one horrible cook.</p><p>He wished she would write him back—even if her message were just one word.</p><p>It took near to two hours, but Hisoka was able to complete his errands—not just for food, but also a number of miscellaneous household objects, such as soap, fresh candles, firewood—and return home safely around mid-afternoon. Once the flowers were situated in their vases, the soaps in the bathrooms, the clean clothes on the line outside, the stray cat fed—once all of these things were completed, Hisoka brought himself to the kitchen with an apron around his torso.</p><p>He heated the oil. He chopped the onion, the peppers, the tomatoes, and delivered them all to the oil. He set his water to a boil. To the oil, he added oregano, basil, pepper, and salt. He boiled the noodles. Chopped the garlic. Added it to the oil to roast.</p><p>The loud clang of the doorbell pealed through the townhouse. With collected curiosity, Hisoka set his knife on the cutting board, rinsed his hands of garlic juice, and went to retrieve the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Silver Eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cathedral was dark. With it being so late in the evening, such was to be expected, but the darkness and the quiet conflated in a way that sent shivers down Hisoka's spine. The floors were made of black and white marble squares, all glossed over and shimmering under the sparse moonlight which fell through the windows in the dome and at the end of the main hall. Each pillar and stand reached high up into the ceiling, supporting the string of domes in front of Hisoka. Every seat was empty and painted with a light coat of dust, as if the last few people to sit in the pews towards the entrance had all been ghosts. Hisoka looked up into the dome; he saw the hundreds of painted men and women with their hands together in prayer and their eyes staring down at him. Hisoka clutched the vest over heart. He was not a religious man, and he had not been in years, and probably never had been at all, but the way those eyes looked down on him made him feel like God was really there, in that church. </p><p>Hisoka walked forward, one hand in his pocket. He spun between his fingers a small slip of paper—a telegram. As he passed under the first dome, a line of about a dozen men and women passed by, and at the head of their train was a preacher in a long, white vestment. He held a tall spear-like object in his hand, and from the object hung a dish with smoke flowing out of it. They sang gently, their voices reaching out into the very ends of the cathedral and soaking into the walls. </p><p>Hisoka bowed his head towards them and waited for them to cross his path completely before continuing down the middle aisle. He passed beneath three separate domes, each smaller and more narrow than the last, before coming to the final section of the cathedral. </p><p>A few people sat scattered within the pews, their heads all craned down as they prayed. Hisoka searched for Mila, but each woman's head was covered so that he couldn't pick out the head of hair that was hers. He stepped by each pew and looked closely at ten or eleven praying faces before he reached the second pew to the front At the far end knelt one woman in a white promenade dress with a white, translucent scarf draped elegantly over her hair and her face.</p><p>Hisoka went and sat beside her. She didn't look up from the pew in front of her, but she did pause her whispering. Hisoka looked away from her, and his eyes met the statue of a crucified Jesus on the wall—a tall, tall, statue, appearing to have been made from silver. He glared down at him harshly—or perhaps He was glaring down at Mila? </p><p>"I received your telegram." He spoke English</p><p>"Evidently."</p><p>"Why are you here?"</p><p>She glanced at him and replied plainly, "Did you ask me why I came to church?"</p><p>"To an Anglican Church? And under the certain circumstances—your ominous note, this disappearance? What the hell—"</p><p>"Easy," she scolded. "You are in front of God now."</p><p>"God's heard my profanities before, and he'll hear them again. Mila, I demand to know what happened."</p><p>She switched to her native tongue, her voice low and trembling: "He's dead."</p><p>"Whom?" asked Hisoka with urgency.</p><p>"My publisher—Mr. Lawrence."</p><p>"He's dead? Dear God... How did you do it? Did you stab him?" he gasped, trying to remember if he had seen police outside of the cathedral. "Are you here on sanctuary?" </p><p>She began to weep, dropping her head into her hands. "No, no—I...I didn't kill him. He was leaving. He was leaving, and I watched from the window. He stepped into the street, and a carriage had just turned the corner."</p><p>"So you didn't kill him?"</p><p>"No. No, I didn't. But I prayed that he would die. I caused this."</p><p>"Oh, dear..."</p><p>Hisoka reached and pulled her up into the seat—but she cast his arm away. "Don't hold me, please," she begged. </p><p>Hisoka backed away, nodding gently. </p><p>"I watched his head—It was a-a melon... As if someone smashed open a melon." She gasped for air and sunk into Hisoka's arms. "Lord be with us, I... He's dead. I killed him."</p><p>"Shh, my dear." </p><p>He looked down at Mila and, slipping his hand under the veil over her face, rubbed his hand against her cheek. Something chipped beneath his fingernail. With scrunched eyebrows, Hisoka pulled his hand away and attempted to examine it under the dim light. Whatever it was, it was dark and dried up. Hisoka then sat straight and moved to unveil Mila's face. She flinched and shut her eyes tight as if to wish that he wasn't about to see what lied underneath. Her eye was bruised and in one of the final stages of purpling; her cheek was cut, and the blood that had dripped from it had dried and crusted over her skin; part of her lip was nearly busted, not yet bleeding but bruised enough so that just another hit would have popped her whole lip. </p><p>"Did he do this to you?" Hisoka's heart thudded. </p><p>Mila nodded.</p><p>"Dear Lord, why? What happened?"</p><p>"He saw someone else's blemishes on my skin. I never thought him a jealous man—It's not as if we were romantically involved."</p><p>Hisoka closed his eyes and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "My blemishes. The ones I gave you earlier this week."</p><p>"It matters not that they were yours."</p><p>"I know it shouldn't, but it does." He sighed. "You came here because of the events passing with Lawrence—because he beat you."</p><p>"He..." Mila shook her head, sobbing quietly. "This time was different. I never wanted it before, but I never... I've never been forced down and hit. That's never happened to me before."</p><p>Hisoka looked her over as she shuddered and shook, completely in fear of touching her at this point. Her eyes were dark—everything had left them besides a total look of fear. She ceased to speak, leaving her mouth agape as she stared at the crucifixion in front of her. </p><p>"Why does God let these things happen?"</p><p>He didn't know what to say to her. Hisoka wasn't sure about many things, but he was sure about a lack of a God—as sure as he could be. Despite this, he knew that anything he could say would only worsen Mila's idea of her religion, and so he chose not to say anything more. She needed her God right now, and Hisoka didn't want to be the one to take it from her. Frankly, he wished he had a god of his own, too. Someone who could tell him it wasn't his fault that Mila had gotten hurt.</p><p>"God have mercy on our souls," he whispered, covering his eyes with one hand.</p>
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<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Carpet Bags</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mila had waited for a week in the spare bedroom of Hisoka's townhome before deciding to return to Illumi's manor. The primary reason for this was that she did not want to return with a black eye on her face, so she had decided to wait for that to heal before facing Illumi; she could do nothing about the cuts on her cheek and lip though, and decided that she would declare the wounds caused by a stray cat (and that they were thoroughly cleansed by a nurse in the hospital down the road; otherwise, Illumi would certainly send for a physician). </p><p>She could feel her heart pounding as Hisoka's car squeaked to a stop on the front drive. Illumi stood on the porch, waiting to receive her, and no one stood beside him. When they stopped and got out of the car, none of the servants dashed out of the house to retrieve their things. With Hisoka's hand, Mila stepped out of the car. He kissed her hand and, without any intention of greeting Illumi, went around the car to duck into the driver's seat.</p><p>Illumi called, "Hisoka, will you stay for tea?"</p><p>"I'm afraid I have a meeting with my fellow thespians in an hour and thirty. But I'll telephone you at my earliest convenience for a visit."</p><p>"Very well. I look forward to it."</p><p>Hisoka smiled down at Mila. "It was lovely having you. I'm sorry we were not able to make more of your visit to London."</p><p>Mila had spent the whole week in her own solitary confinement, neither allowing Hisoka to enter her room nor entering the same room as he for most of the days. It wasn't until her final day that she came out of the guest room to say hello and tell him that she was ready to leave. It had been discussed previously that, were Mila to visit London with Hisoka, they would have to attend an opera, a ball, and some form of sporting match to complete the journey; Mila had lived in London for a long time, but she had not seen much of it outside her cheap tenement and her university.</p><p>"In good time, we will see more of the sights together."</p><p>"I'll phone you soon." Hisoka started the car. "And I apologize if the flowers I picked for you have wilted, but I will send more immediately."</p><p>"Thank you."</p><p>"Telephone if you need anything—day or night. I want you to know you can talk to me."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"Promise?"</p><p>"I promise."</p><p>Once he began to drive off, Mila made her way up to the patio. Her heartbeat pounded through to her ears, and she could feel her fingers growing cold. Illumi was nearly staring her down, wearing all-black and a look that could have killed her instantly. It wore away as she got closer, however, and was soon replaced with gentleness. He dropped down the patio steps to meet her and extended his hands to cup her face.</p><p>Mila let him. She had first been averse to touch since the , but the feeling of Illumi's skin was a feeling she did not fear—and, rather, she welcomed it a bit. His hands were refreshingly cool. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in.</p><p>"I wish I had heard sooner that you were well," he whispered. "What caused such a disappearance?"</p><p>"Among other things... my publisher died before our meeting. I was... in shock. I still am."</p><p>Illumi pressed his chin to her forehead. "I deeply apologize. But, I entreat you, let me know your whereabouts before you next disappear into the night."</p><p>Mila chuckled dryly. "I do not plan to disappear any more."</p><p>"Excellent. Shall we go inside? I believe I just heard thunder."</p><p>Mila turned and looked across the wide fields before here. The sky was grey, though not necessarily dark, so she was not so sure that any rain would come. She also had not heard thunder—just the whistling of sharp winds through the bare tree branches. </p><p>"Let us."</p><p>Illumi had taken on an oddly chipper role, perhaps supposing there had to be one light-hearted person of the two for conversation to occur; usually, he was the quiet one, but Mila's entire personality had taken to the disfigured, horribly dark facet of her which she usually kept under wraps. He had only seen it once before, as Mila infrequently allowed others to know her deeper sadness, and he had sworn when he met such disfigurement that he never wanted to know it again. He denied Felix's help in taking Mila's things up to her room and instead guided her there himself and began to speak about his week.</p><p>"And, that said, I'll be taking a fortnight's absence from work," he informed as they came to the top of the staircase. "I would be most pleased if you allowed me to take you dancing in that timeframe."</p><p>This made Mila perk up suddenly. "Dancing? Where does one such as yourself go to dance?"</p><p>"Well, I received an invite to a wedding at the Merryfield Hall and am allowed a guest of my choosing."</p><p>"A wedding? For whom?"</p><p>Illumi paused in the middle of the hallway and closed his eyes gently. "Miss Amelia Whiteford."</p><p>"Your former fiancée?" Mila also stopped. She looked back at him with an unwavering stare, sounding nearly offended but more so surprised.</p><p>"Yes, though..." Illumi coughed into his sleeve. "She's marrying a young man from Wales: Owian Keward, said the invitation, though I've heard little about him but from my mother. She says he's an accountant—for my company, as a matter of fact." </p><p>He said little else as the two continued on their way to Mila's room, which was just at the end of the hall. Illumi took the door for her and then followed in himself. It had remained relatively unchanged, except for the maid's usual cleaning, Mila's journals and notes (which changed positions every time Illumi entered the room), and a vase of wilted flowers which sat on the window sill beside Mila's writing desk. They were in one of the white vases from the kitchen—a spare which Illumi hated for its simplistic style; monotone vases were the epitome of classlessness. He set Mila's bags down on the bed and wondered what on earth she could have had inside them. She had been gone for a week, yes, but she had not left with much. An umbrella, a hat, perhaps—what else? Had Hisoka been buying her things?</p><p>"It is rude, on her part, inviting her former fiancé to her wedding?"</p><p>Illumi turned his head and looked up at Mila, who stood over her bags with the. He replied, "No, I don't think so At the least, I do not take offense to her invite."</p><p>"I had it in my mind that it was rude to invite to a wedding someone with whom you ended a relationship."</p><p>"Perhaps, but she did not break our engagement."</p><p>Mila's air went quiet. She asked gently after a moment, "Then who did?"</p><p>"I did."</p><p>"Why would you have done that?"</p><p>Brushing his finger against the window sill, Illumi replied, "Because I was in love with you."</p><p>"But..."</p><p>"I broke the engagement the evening you left—just short of fifteen minutes, I recall."</p><p>"Oh, dear... do not tell me that," Mila gasped, shuffling through her carpet bag full of books.</p><p>"Why not?" </p><p>"Because, if you do, I will have to sit and regret every decision I have made since that night."</p><p>"Pardon?" He coughed and turned to her.</p><p>"Including saying that."</p><p>Illumi asked, "What do you mean, Mila?"</p><p>She turned back to the carpet bag and removed from it her white dress, the one she had worn upon first leaving a week earlier. With haste, she set it aside on her pillow and removed seven books; taking them up in arms, she rushed to the book case and slipped them into the empty shelf at the top. Illumi watched her repeat the process, seeing the way she moved past him and avoided his gaze at all costs. Her face was red, and her shoulders had tensed with a tightness that made her whole posture appear somewhat painful.</p><p>"Mila, tell me," he demanded, but he already knew what she had meant. He wanted to hear her say it.</p><p>"I can not."</p><p>"Mila—"</p><p>He stepped over to the bookshelf and gently wrapped his arm around her wrist. She spun towards him. Her eyes went wide with some odd emotional mixture Illumi had never seen before—surprise... but fear as well. Illumi had seen Mila's eyes angry before, and he had seen them sad, but he'd never seen them afraid. The worst look he'd ever gotten from her was when he watched Miss Whiteford introduce herself to her, but this look was worse. He stepped back, dropping her hand with care.</p><p>"Leave, please."</p><p>"Yes, I..." He simply nodded and went for the door</p><p>As he exited, Mila, with her back turned, said, "I will go to the wedding with you."</p><p>"Very well, Mila. I'll have Felix call for supper."</p>
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<a name="section0029"><h2>29. The Telephone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Mila, a call for you. Chrollo."</p><p>"Chrollo? Whatever for...?"</p><p>The young woman looked up from her seat to the balcony area in the library. Illumi stood at the railing, his hair pulled back into a bun and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She set aside her book and stood, patting down her olive-green skirts. Mila went up the stairs and followed Illumi to his office desk, where he handed to her his telephone head and then sat down at his desk.</p><p>She picked up the receiver. "Chrollo, are you there?"</p><p>"Mimi, Dear—yes, I am." His voice sounded strained and weak, and she could hear him breathing heavily through the grainy speaker.</p><p>"Illumi told me you had ventured to Manchester. How is it there? Are you well? You sound ill."</p><p>"As a matter of fact, it was excellent at first, but I seem to have"—he paused to breathe in—"had an asthma attack and will be... at the hospital for a while."</p><p>"Ah, mon Dieu. Will you be alright?"</p><p>"Yes, the doctor says I simply need rest. I will be released in a week to return home."</p><p>"I see. I will pray for your recovery. Is that all for which you called?"</p><p>After taking a long breath, he replied, "I had two things: your absence, and your manuscript. I was wondering for what reason you so suddenly disappeared? I was worried I had done something to offend you."</p><p>"You have not ever offended me, Chrollo. My publisher passed just after we met for tea, and I was... I was in shock. I apologize for whatever anxieties I gave you; it was not my intention, though I should have been more conscious of my actions."</p><p>lllumi gave her a look, his eyebrow quirking upwards.</p><p>"I'm sorry to hear about your friend. I understand the shock of losing someone so suddenly. It's not a... an easy thing at all. Will you be alright?"</p><p>"Yes, I will, but I really do not want to talk about it. You mentioned my manuscript. Have you taken it with you to Manchester?"</p><p>"I did, as a matter of fact, and I have all the time in the world to make my commentary. If your company will allow you, I should have my edits done by my arrival, so you can set your date for submission shortly. It's endearing so far; I'm quite impressed."</p><p>Said Mila, "That is good to hear. Thank you."</p><p>"Of course. I'm getting tired, and I'm sure you're a busy woman, so I won't keep you. I'll see you in just past a week."</p><p>"I will see you then. Rest well."</p><p>"For you, I will," he replied cheerily."And, when I return, I ask that you allow me to take you on a date. A night on the town."</p><p>"A date?" She smiled and blushed.</p><p>"Think about it. Goodbye, Mimi, dearest."</p><p>"Yes, I will... Goodbye."</p><p>Mila set the receiver down on the stand and looked up at Illumi. The man held a copy of some contract or another in one hand and a dip pen in his other. His desk always seemed to be filled to the brim with work, with papers spilling off of the sides and envelopes stacked at each corner—even sitting on one of his chairs like a large discard pile. Mila rarely came into Illumi's study, mostly considering it one of the no-go ones, as this wasn't her house regardless of how long she'd been staying here (coming up on six months now). She took a look around and saw a photograph she hadn't seen before—hanging up on the wall behind Illumi's desk. She stood and went to it.</p><p>In a redwood frame, the small square photo hung among larger, more proper photos; this one, however, was of two young men who wore the brightest grins on their faces. Mila rarely saw photographs in which the people were smiling, simply because a photograph was a serious thing, like getting one's portrait painted. But these men—one with short hair and a cane, and the other with longer hair and a smaller smile than the other—held their arms around one another and clearly were laughing. One was Illumi: the one on the right, with the small smile and long hair. Mila knew that was how he looked when he was younger, around eighteen.</p><p>"Is this Chrollo when you were younger?"</p><p>Illumi hummed and, setting down his pen, turned to look up at the photo. "Yes, it is. We took it when he was staying with us for the summer. We were sixteen, I believe."</p><p>"That must have been the year I arrived. I can not believe I did not meet him then."</p><p>"I didn't let you two meet. Chrollo surely would have spilled to family that you and I were together romantically. I made sure to change the schedules whenever possible."</p><p>She laughed. "He is bad at keeping secrets?"</p><p>"Those of his friends, most certainly. Especially in the way of gossip; word that I, a stern young man as I was, had a romantic partner without the approval of my parents would have been too delectable a piece of information for him to keep it quiet."</p><p>"That sounds much like him." She peered at the photograph again. "He looks so ill. Why does he have a cane?"</p><p>"There's a story behind that which I feel I should share... but you ought to sit."</p><p>Mila looked at him with widened eyes. "If it is too personal, then do not tell me. I do not want to violate—"</p><p>"It may be, but you should know, and I can't say I trust Chrollo to tell you."</p><p>There was a moment of silence between the two. Mila sank somewhat into herself, that foreboding feeling encroaching on her space as she watched Illumi's dark eyes lose what small spark they'd had before. She sighed gently, turning about the room, and took her seat in the armchair opposite to Illumi. He waited a moment, not quite sure where or how to start his story—and, frankly, wondering if this was even his story to tell. He went against his better judgement and began with a long breath and a leaning back in his chair.</p><p>"Chrollo and I have been well met since boyhood. It was a matter of two businessmen who worked together and found they quite liked one another, and then their pregnant wives deciding they quite liked one another as well. After we were a few years old, our parents began to ship us across seas to see one another every year—or, when Mr. Lucilfer was on business in England after Chrollo's mother passed, he would stay with us so he may be entertained while his father was working."</p><p>"Okay..."</p><p>"One year, he appeared, without his father, in a very sickly state. He'd always had asthma, but he had become horribly pale and skinny. His eyes were bulging out of his skull, and he had to carry a cane with him wherever we went. Mr. Lucilfer had sent him abroad to stay with us on account of some troublesome news which had befallen the family: Chrollo had fallen into some of the more harder drugs of the bunch and was now required to stay away from his family to recover. The aim was to avoid Mr. Lucilfer's public arena at home discovering his son's addiction, so he was with us for more than that summer—perhaps a whole six months."</p><p>He paused so that Mila could catch her breath with the news she had been given. Once she looked up at him with anticipation, he thought of where to continue.</p><p>"This was the year after you quit. It took most of Chrollo's time with us for him to find something to replace his... addiction. He began to read—and I mean really read. He analyzed every line he could in every book he read, even going so far as to read a whole other book if there was even a chance it had been referenced in the first book. I remember that, by his final month with us, when he'd read half of our own library (and was still working on the other half), I would hear him reciting novels to himself in his room from six in the morning to midnight."</p><p>"Did he memorize them?" Mila gasped.</p><p>Illumi nodded. "Yes, but Chrollo's memory is photographic, so that was less a feat to him than to another."</p><p>"And he did all this...?"</p><p>"To distract himself, at first. He hadn't been taking drugs for long, but they were the kinds that stick after two, three doses. Our quarters were beside one another's, so I heard him at night in the first few weeks when he was rummaging through his room in search of something—a cigarette, most often, but we'd had those taken out, as well as the alcohol and medicine. He wanted something to replace the drugs." Illumi stood and began to turn about the room, his thumb pressed to his chin. "Once he got past the hard part, wanting another dose or hit every second, I assumed he needed a distraction from the cause of it all: losing his mother. I never asked. And I probably never will."</p><p>Illumi stayed quiet once more, having finished his account of the events which had taken place years ago, and he knew he needed to give Mila a moment. She had to go through all of Chrollo's words a few times over in order to bring out the magnitude of it all.</p><p>She stayed in the arm chair, staring up at the photo with a dull gaze. There were stories out all the time about how this person and that person were charged with drug abuse; it was common with all of the new medicines being produced those days. New drugs meant new ways to abuse them. Mila knew that much—but she hadn't known anyone personally who had ever been in that situation. It was frightening to imagine Chrollo in such a state, and even worse to wonder how horrible he must have felt to have gotten to the point where he was addicted to something like that.</p><p>She ran a hand through her hair after a while, perhaps five minutes, and looked down at Illumi's desk. On the binding of a large book in the corner, under a few papers, she saw a title which particularly stuck out to her: "La Langue Français: A Guide To Learning French."</p><p>A curious smile slipped onto her face as she reached out for it. "Illumi, what is this?"</p><p>He, who had taken his seat, glanced up and then lunged for the book as soon as he saw what it was. "Don't look at that."</p><p>She had it away from his reach before he could snag it from her. As he stood to round the desk, Mila read the title aloud. "Are you learning French?"</p><p>"So what if I am?"</p><p>"You should have asked me to help," Mila suggested, opening to the bookmarked page. "How much have you learned?"</p><p>"Nothing. I'm not—"</p><p>"Chapitre Deux, Section un: Les articles. Un/une, le/la. You must be quite new at it. But, Illumi, you can not learn a language from only a book. You have to speak to someone in it as well."</p><p>"I have an instructor, Mila."</p><p>"Say something to me in French. What is one thing you know how to say?"</p><p>He took the book from her and snapped it shut. "I'm not going to do this, Mila."</p><p>"S'il te plait? For me?"</p><p>Illumi set the book down on top of the stack in which it had been placed before. As he took a seat, he looked Mila over. She wore a teasing, almost flirtatious smile on her face as she returned his gaze.</p><p>"You and Chrollo are going on a date?"</p>
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<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Merryfield Hall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In her formal gown, Mila was quite the sight for sore eyes. It was a soft yellow of brilliant silk material and had a simple design—not quite as ornate as most of the other women's but not so plain that she stuck out. There was a thick, red ribbon around her waist, also silk, resting with a neat bow in the back. Her hair was up in a large braid bun with pearls propped here and there; it was a style which had taken Annabelle thirty minutes to do, so Mila had taken care not to ruin it with a hat. She had a glow about her which was maintained as long as she stayed at Illumi's side; for him to leave, as he had already done twice, resulted in a dimming of her brightness and a terribly awkward bend in her posture. </p><p>After noticing this twice, and also seeing how lovely she was, Illumi made a note not to leave his partner's side for the evening. It would have been rude anyway, as he had invited her so she could dance with him anyway, but now he had two reasons not to engage with others. </p><p>The wedding ceremony had been held in Merryfield Hall, not the church just a mile away, on account of the windy weather. It was decided that riding against the wind would be too much for the horses, so all were told to stay at Merryfield instead of moving to the church before the ceremony, and a preacher was brought about to give the ceremony in the secondary hall. Now, in the main hall (of three, rumored some), the guests (around two-hundred, rumored others) had all piled to dance and eat and celebrate. </p><p>It was a brilliantly-decorated area; from the high ceilings, with granite pillars to support them, hung golden chandeliers of Gregorian design that shone about the room their crystal reflections. There were tables around the room, all covered with silk table cloths and hosting, at their centers, gold candelabra and name tags. Each dress and suit was of the finest tailoring, even those of the three babies Mila had seen. Bouquets and floral rings sat here and there on every surface available. Near the center of the room, which had been cleared for dancing, stood the blushing bride and groom as they watched their guests enter and greeted the ones who approached them.</p><p>Illumi and Mila slipped in and did not greet Mr. and Mrs. Keward. They opted for doing so later and then spending the rest of the night dancing. They were guided to their table by a waiter and, upon sitting down, noticed that both of the name tags at their seats read, "Guest." Illumi had been a last-minute invite (which, he commented, was the new Mrs. Keward, formerly Ms. Whiteford's way of showing her contempt for Illumi while still pretending to be polite in inviting him at all). </p><p>"I would not pretend to know that for certain, but I can not deny that it makes sense," relied Mila to this hypothesis.</p><p>Illumi pulled out Mila's chair for her. "Mrs. Keward had this indirect way of expressing her immaturity even when she and I were engaged. I can be irritated by her not for her immaturity but for her indirectness, however; if she wished to express her dislike for myself, perhaps she should not have invited me at all."</p><p>"We can leave if you would like. I am sure she would not notice."</p><p>Illumi looked to the grand doors through which they had entered. Two men stood at the doors, each with a long list in hand. "She has eyes on the departures." </p><p>"Do you care what she thinks?"</p><p>"No, but I would not like to be the man who leaves his ex-fiancée's wedding early alongside another woman. That would not be a good look for myself."</p><p>Mila scoffed. "So others will be the ones to talk? And you care what they think?"</p><p>"To some extent, yes. I'd like to make a friend or two, you know." He set his hands on his knees. "Besides, I brought you here to dance, so dance we shall."</p><p>"Certainly not now."</p><p>"No, but after the speeches and the meal, of course." He turned his attention to her. "You look lovely, Mila."</p><p>This brought a smile to her face. "Thank you. You picked an excellent dress."</p><p>"I hoped you might stand out a bit."</p><p>"Rather, you hoped my shoulders might stand out a bit," she remarked, giving him an inquiring tilt of her head.</p><p>Illumi, a slight smirk on his face, turned away and sipped from his champagne glance, giving no oral reply, but his answer was clear. This made Mila scoff once more, and she shifted her gaze away from him with a smile and a shake of her head. He too was exceptionally dressed tonight; he sat clad in his black suit, no accents but a single pocket watch chain which hung from his chain loop to his watch pocket. The watch was gold to match Mila's own ornaments, which she had to appreciate from him. He sat taller than usual and was prouder than usual, and he had put on a certain glint in his eye so that he looked more professional rather than simply numb. </p><p>She wondered from time to time if he might ask about her date with Chrollo. Was Illumi so proud not to inquire about her daily life? or was he so disinterested in her or her life to wonder whether she and Chrollo were romantic.</p><p>The speeches went by quickly. First had come Amelia's speech, in which she explained how grateful to God she was that her life turned out the way it did (during which she hinted toward her failed engagement with Illumi several times) because, otherwise, she would not have met Mr. Keward, her proclaimed soulmate. It was brilliant and sappy and did more than was deserved by her spouse beside her, and Illumi forgot momentarily how vain a woman Amelia always was. </p><p>It was Owain's speech, on the other hand, which seemed less than sincere. Mila first noted it in a whisper, which was perhaps the only reason Illumi realized it; Mr. Keward spoke less of his wife's beauty than of her fortune. Any mentions of her appearance were attributed entirely to her expensive attire, her luxurious ornamentation, and her staff of several people who applied her makeup and did her hair. But no one seemed to notice or care besides Mila and, by extension, Illumi. The both of them felt sorrow for the young wife beside Mr. Keward, who had apparently just entered into the most superficial—perhaps even fraudulent—of marriages the century had ever seen!</p><p>The speeches from the fathers and mothers were also soon finished, and then the meal of four courses afterward, so then all couples gathered on the floor for waltzing and conversing and drinking. Mila and Illumi decided it best to seclude themselves in a corner of the dancing area, knowing well that neither of them were fond of communal dances; Mila did not wish to switch partners and be with a strange man for any moment of the evening, and Illumi quite liked being with Mila and hoped she'd stay beside him for the remainder of the event, so there wasn't so much as even a question about it. </p><p>As they danced, Illumi's eyes had wandered up to the other guests. He had noticed as they swept to the dance floor that a few men, only three, had laid settled their eyes on Mila; the men had not taken their eyes away until he distributed glares and disapproving shakes of his head.</p><p>"At what are you looking so sternly, Illumi?" asked Mila, leaning back as they swayed to view him better.</p><p>"Nothing. Pardon me for allowing my attention to stray." He looked down at her and let a thin smile show on his face. </p><p>"You need not be so formal. Was it a woman that caught your eye?" </p><p>"Don't be coy," he told her firmly.</p><p>"Coy? How am I being coy?"</p><p>"We both know you're the only woman by whom my eye has been caught. Don't pretend you aren't aware of it—certainly not in that dress."</p><p>This caused a flushed pause in their conversation as Mila, her heart pounding, rest her head against Illumi's chest so not to look him in the eye. His heartbeat was slow, so surely he believed the aforementioned knowledge was already common, otherwise he would not have been nervous to say it. Mila asked herself if her hair looked alright and if, perhaps, her pearls were falling out of the updo. Then she worried her dress was torn or smudged somewhere, and she felt jittery all over, and his holding her close helped not to subside this feeling.</p><p>Eventually, another couple swung by and stopped them: the bride and some man whom Illumi did not recognize. Ameilia smiled and pulled the two off to the side, sending her dancing partner away. "Illumi, how good of you to attend on such short notice. I hope you had no trouble in arriving?"</p><p>"Certainly not. Perhaps, if it rains, we may on arriving home."</p><p>"We? Introduce me to your partner, please." She turned to Mila but continued to speak to Illumi: "Certainly you haven't married. I would have heard in the news, I'm sure of it."</p><p>Amelia was a beautiful, young woman around perhaps twenty-four years of age. She had a firm, slender face and rigid features. Her jaw was square, and her eyes were large and almost rectangular, and her mouth was in a nearly-perfect diamond shape. She had pale skin painted with a soft, rosy blush and light makeup, and she wore her wedding dress with a sense of pride that was only worn by people who felt they had won the greatest prize in the world. It was long and puffy and coated in lace—much too ornate for Mila's taste, but objectively a lovely dress, and that much Mila had to admit. </p><p>"He is my fiancé," stated Mila, making an obvious motion of wrapping her arm around his. She curtsied to Amelia. "Miss Mila LaPlante. A pleasure to meet you—and best wishes to your new marriage, Madame."</p><p>"How kind of you. But it's 'for,' Dear, not 'to.'"</p><p>"I am sorry?"</p><p>"Best wishes for your new marriage. Just a small mistake." </p><p>"Amelia, let her be."</p><p>She shrugged. "Ah, I don't mean to be rude, only helpful. When were you two engaged? Certainly at a recent date, of course; Mila is certainly quite new to England, so it couldn't be substantially long ago. A month?"</p><p>"Amelia," warned Illumi.</p><p>"I'm only playing, Illumi."</p><p>"I am fine." Mila looked up at him and smiled so sweetly that he momentarily worried for what she had to say next. "It has not been long, but we have known each other for a while. Illumi and I met when we were younger."</p><p>"Oh, I see. Congratulations to the both of you—and best wishes for  your future life together, yes?"</p><p>"Thank you very much," Illumi replied with a nod.</p><p>"Mila, of how much is your family?"</p><p>"Amelia, please don't grill her."</p><p>Pleasantly, with complete ignorance to Illumi's defense, she said, "My family makes none; they are passed."</p><p>"Oh, none? I see... And you?"</p><p>"I am of about 7,000 pounds."</p><p>"That's more than I would expect from an immigrant. How have you gained such wealth? Certainly not by working under Illumi's watch, yes?"</p><p>"I... I am an author—and former teacher."</p><p>"Where did you teach?"</p><p>"Bedford college. I took a year off to pursue the writing of my second novel, but I will be returning next fall."</p><p>"And you're proud of your career? I assume, or you would be telling me something else. But I wonder how I've never heard of you as a novelist. Ah—surely, you write not in English but French. That must be it. I don't read French novels. I find them rather bland."</p><p>"I write in English."</p><p>"They allow you to do that?"</p><p>"I am actually—"</p><p>She stopped Mila with a wave of her hand. "I'm sure you're a fine enough author. It was excellent meeting you, Mila—and seeing you, Illumi. A pleasure, but I ought to return to my husband." As she stepped away, she looked Mila up and down once more. "I adore the dress, by the way. Quite the... bold statement of you to be seen in public in it."</p><p>Amelia slipped into the crowd to dance with the first man who asked, not her husband. Illumi watched her go before turning his attention to Mila. He sucked in a heavy breath and rubbed his temple. Her forehead had creased and her shoulders tightened, and she'd crossed her arms over herself in a futile attempt to cover herself; it was, after all, her shoulders which had been exposed, and not her waistline. Her eyes fixated on Amelia, who had not done so little as given a glance and a wave, so it was as if she wanted to pretend that Mila owned absolutely no spot in her mind. Illumi knew better; Amelia, he was sure, would not have approached Mila if not for the curiosity and possible jealously which she held in seeing another woman with her ex-fiancé.</p><p>He took Mila by the hand and continued to sway with her as he had been before Amelia approached him. She grumbled as he spun her and said, "I would bet that her French-speaking dos not surpass mine—or my Latin, or my Arabic, for that matter. I would bet that my Arabic-speaking greatly surpasses hers."</p><p>"Mila, I can assure you that, on all levels, you are superior."</p><p>"Do not say it if you do not mean it." She frowned. "I do not need your wheedling. If there are aspects of me which are not on par with her, I would not like to form a false ego."</p><p>"It's not wheedling if I believe it." Illumi pressed the back of her head so her cheek rest against his breast. "Let me take you out to the balcony and tell me all your beautiful aspects."</p><p>"You are too kind to me. I do not deserve your praise."</p><p>"But I would love to impart it upon you."</p>
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<a name="section0031"><h2>31. To Shreds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"What is the occasion for this?"</p><p>"Consider it a thank you for attending the wedding with me."</p><p>Mila looked about the center of the atrium in awe; around it had been set a dozen plain candles on the ledges beside the plants. They created a halo-like effect around the center table, where sat two wine glasses, a small plate of sweet biscuits, and a bottle of red wine. Illumi, a careful hand on Mila's back, gestured her forward and then went to the table. He popped open the bottle of wine and poured each glass a quarter of the way full. Then, catching Mila as she turned about the center in observation, Illumi handed her a glass.</p><p>He added, "And an apology. I ought to have made a clearer disregard for Mrs. Keward's comments about your career and nationality."</p><p>"You had no obligation to step in. I appreciate you for trying, but you did not need to do so."</p><p>"It feels obligatory. It's only right that I defend you when you are thrown under fire. And you don't deserve to be told any of those things that she said—that your people are stupid, or that your career is without base." </p><p>Quiet for a moment, Mila sipped her wine. "Is it not a bit late for a wine so dark?"</p><p>"Only if you're a coward," he said with a smile and a nod of his wine glass, which made her laugh. "I thought wine and such—our own little party—would be a nice break from the disaster which was the evening thus far. Like I said: an apology for dragging you to the wedding of my ex-fiancée. Not my best idea."</p><p>"The food was free, however." She stepped toward him.</p><p>"I could have made you anything you wanted. We really could have avoided it..."</p><p>"A povert never turns down free food, Illumi—no matter how rich he eventually becomes."</p><p>He smirked gently, saying, "I'm sure that could be an excellent metaphor in your novel."</p><p>"It is."</p><p>"You're a genius." Illumi sighed. "I'll say again: please take not to heart Amelia's comments. Your income has no affect on your intelligence or your worth—your humanity."</p><p>This made Mila pause. From his lips, this was one thing she never expected to emerge: the admittance that class and intelligence were unlinked. Her eyes carefully outlined him in the dim lighting: his suit coat, pitch black and of the finest cotton material, asserted the broad shape of his shoulders. He stood tall, but not without his humility and guilt. Her neck collar felt tight; she moved her hand up adjust it a tad. Then, she took Illumi's wine glass from him and set it, along with hers, on the table beside them. Before he could make a move to question her actions, she slipped her hand onto his chest and curled her arms up and around his shoulders. Her head rested against his breast as it had earlier, but now with a tenderness she had not known how to express.</p><p>"Dance with me," she whispered.</p><p>"There's no music."</p><p>"There need not be music to dance. It may be better this way." She repositioned her ear to feel the way his chest vibrated with every sound and syllable and breath. "You linger too much on my defense from Mrs. Keward. Why is this really?"</p><p>"Because I did not do so earlier in life." His hands went to her waist, and his chin to the top of her head.</p><p>"Earlier?"</p><p>"When we were younger. I'm guilty for my actions back then."</p><p>Mila said, "But I was the one who left."</p><p>"But you left because I gave you no reason to stay. It's my fault, and I accept it, but now I wish to amend it."</p><p>"What reasons could you have given me? I would not have listened, I am sure. I was too stubborn as a girl. And you should have been reason enough."</p><p>As the two gently swayed about the courtyard of the atrium, what came to Illumi's mind was the image of Mila, settling into the carriage his mother had offered her to use on short notice. The wheels bumping and jumping, and the horses trotting off. The dark sky. The faint silhouette of Mila's curly hair through the back screen of the carriage, and that shadow faintly blurring away as the carriage moved further and further away. Then, the curtain closed over the window through which Illumi had been looking, and Amelia stood there with an expectant smile. </p><p>"When I said that I loved you, and you told me that you would regret every decision you'd made since that night—you said it just the other night... Tell me what you meant, please."</p><p>"I cannot."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Because you know what I meant."</p><p>"But I wish to hear it out loud. Make your affection known to me."</p><p>She shook her head and looked at him with eyebrows curled upward. "Illumi, you do not want me."</p><p>"Why should I not?"</p><p>"I am a wretched soul."</p><p>A wretched soul? Illumi frowned at this, and he stopped the two from their slow dancing. He examined Mila closely. She was firm and mature, but sadder than he had ever seen her. Her eyes were tired, and her skin was pale. A week of dreariness had been spread over her figure, remedied only slightly by the sudden spring in conversation. She was a tired woman now. A beautifully tired and curious woman, but a tired woman.</p><p>"You made me stop believing in God, you know." He took a long, thoughtful pause.</p><p>"That does not sound like a good thing."</p><p>He shook his head and released a breathy chuckle. "No, no... Watching you leave was like seeing the Sistine Chapel crumble. I thought for so long, 'If there was a god, He would not have created such a beautiful thing only to steal her away from me. No god can be so cruel.' Such a feeling makes one think of Hell as only a word.<br/>"But then you sprung back into my life. You brought back God. And, as He is my witness, I want to be able to say to what magnitude you make me feel. I want to connect to things and to people because you promise me it is a brilliant thing. You make me feel so violently that the softest look across a room full of people tears my insides apart—but every tear is so delightful. Mila, if you do not feel the same way—if I do not tear you to shreds—then I understand. And I will leave this conversation to rest, and remain your loyal friend, and never will I impart guilt or anger, for it is your choice. But if I do, then make it known, for I cannot be left without knowing."</p><p>Mila had a tearful look in her eye as she processed his words. Suddenly, she cast him aside gently and spun to face the wall of plants. Her head tilted up to the ceiling, and she gasped with fury and clenched her fists.</p><p>"You can not feel like this about me. I am dreadful, Illumi."</p><p>"Dreadful! How blind can you be to your weight? So dreadful a thing as you claim yourself to be could not be the cause of so much goodness."</p><p>"I lie! I lie to myself about my feelings, and then I betray. I sleep with Hisoka and flirt with Chrollo and betray my feelings for you. You can not love such a horrible creature as myself. You are too good."</p><p>"Hisoka?"</p><p>She sobbed, "Yes, Hisoka. Hisoka."</p><p>"When?"</p><p>"France. In Moreaux—Mon Dieu."</p><p>"Do you love him?"</p><p>She stopped—her entire body freezing as she thought over the answer. She knew it in her heart, but saying it out loud would kill her. Her shoulders and chin dipped, and she closed her eyes gently.</p><p>"Mila? Do you love him?"</p><p>She murmured, "I am trying."</p><p>"Why try? You should not have to try." </p><p>"Because I love him until I see you. And I love Chrollo until I see you." Mila turned to him and grabbed his cheeks. "I hate you, Illumi Zoldyck! Je te déteste, et je déteste t'aimer. Embrasse-moi."</p><p>"Say it clear! I don't know that much French, Mila."  </p><p>"Kiss me, please," she cried.</p><p> Illumi took no moment to hesitate before the act. He kissed her, as she had asked, and it was as if a sudden pressure had just been lifted away from his body—that weight of constant sub rosa attraction: the glance across the room, the subtle touches on the shoulder or the waist, the subtle flirtatious remarks. </p><p>They fell into a hypnotic rhythm, a loving mess of heavy breathing and fingers tangling in each other's hair. Illumi pulled the pins out of Mila's hair and dropped them so he could wrap his hand in her curls, and his other hand stay on her back to hold her warm body against his. Her lips tasted like their round, sweet, red wine that sat idly on the table behind them. He felt her warm hand slip up his neck and caress his jaw with a loving tenderness, and it only made him want more. </p><p>The rings of Mila's hoop skirt crumpled as Illumi reached down for her leg and pulled it up so her thigh rested against his him. She moaned in anticipation. The humid air of the atrium soaked their skin and created a hot air of sweat around the pair. They shifted to back themselves against the ledge, where Illumi picked Mila up to have her sit, and he pressed her forward so that she leaned back, almost falling into the bushes. He then pulled down on her hair so she would tilt her neck up. He released his lips from hers and brought them forcefully to her neck, having remembered the spot she loved on their first night together so long ago. The hunger with which he kissed forced her head back further and an even louder gasp of his name. And he kissed more. He kissed longer—harder, realizing that the sensation could be slipped away from him at any waking moment. </p><p>And it was. Mila eventually put her hands on Illumi's chest and pushed him away—not very far, but just enough so that he knew to stop. With heavy breathing and closed eyes, she whispered against his lips, "We can not do this."</p><p>"And this is your response to my confession?" He sucked in an adrenaline-fueled breath and set his hands in his own hair.</p><p>"My response is this: we are not past our heartbreak from our past love."</p><p>"Our past love?"</p><p>"With each other." </p><p>"But cannot we repair that by loving one another now?"</p><p>"Humans are beautifully flawed, Illumi. You are guilty and angry, and I am angry and guilty. To be together now, we must repair our own hurt. Otherwise we will suffocate one another. There is a time to love, but I am afraid we are early."</p><p>He waited a moment to think. Illumi had sometimes wondered if he had not forgotten Mila because he was in love with the idea of her and not her true self. With this opportunity presented, he realized that this might be a good time to stop and become sure that this was not the case. Illumi moved to embrace her and then sighed. Mila returned his embrace.</p><p>"There will be time."</p>
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<a name="section0032"><h2>32. The Grass, The Trees!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chrollo sat in the driver's seat of his car with a bright grin on his face. He waved to Mila as she jumped down the stairs, her parasol in one hand and her promenade hat in the other. She wore her favorite dress and paired it with its promenade jacket: a dark olive green skirt, which puffed out slightly because of the loose hoop dress she wore under it; a white waist shirt with a lace lining at the collar which reached high around her neck; a dark olive promenade blazer, closed neatly by its six large, brown buttons. A simple and plain outfit, made ornate only by her hat and white parasol, but exquisite in its simplicity. Chrollo loved the color on her, and enjoyed watching her approach his vehicle in it.</p><p>Chrollo stepped out of the car and opened his arms. When Mila embraced him, he picked her up and spun her around, which made her laugh and demand that he set her down. As he did so, he looked up at the house and saw Illumi, who had pushed aside the curtain in his bedroom window to see. Chrollo gave his friend a small nod before turning his attention to Mila and grinning brightly.</p><p>"It feels like ages since I have last seen you."</p><p>"Surely, it's only been three weeks," he said. "But it was much warmer out when last we met. I hope the weather doesn't put a damper on our plans."</p><p>"What exactly are our plans?"</p><p>Chrollo handed his bags to Felix and gave him a quick thank you as he retreated to the house. He gestured back to the car and said, "How about you get in and I show you?"</p><p>She smiled and moved to round the car—but Chrollo stopped her with a gentle touch on the arm. Mila looked him over closely then; he was paler than he had been, and his eyes were a tad sick. She remembered what Illumi had told her upon her arrival home from London, and her mouth fell slightly agape. Chrollo, eyebrows raised, shook his head.</p><p>"What is it?" Mila asked him.</p><p>He opened up the driver's seat door and nodded toward it. "You're going to learn to drive this hunk of metal, Mimi."</p><p>"Drive it?" she exclaimed, eyes widening.</p><p>"Oh, yes. I'm much too tired to do it, and every self-respecting woman should know how to drive."</p><p>"The etiquette books tell me otherwise."</p><p>"And those are written by the same people who believe women's bodies aren't made to travel over ten kilometers per hour." He held her hand as she stepped into the car and then turned about to the front of the car. He turned the ignition lever and then went to the passenger's side of the car. "If I can do it, I'm sure you can do it ten times better—but my first tip: never turn a car on unsupervised. That ignition lever is a nasty thing; it'll take your arm off if you're not strong enough for it."</p><p>"I will be remembering that. What now must I do?"</p><p>"A car's got three ways of working when it's on: park, reverse, and forward. You're in park now, so you're not going anywhere. If you were pulling out of a narrow spot, you would go into the reverse gear and turn the wheel the opposite way you wanted to go. But Illumi's front is large enough so you can just make a circle. Shift this gear here to the 'drive' setting by clamping the handle and pulling back on the lever."</p><p>She did as he asked and began to follow his instructions to drive out of the front lot. At first, she started slow. Her body jolted at each bump in the dirt road, shaking with the fear that she might crash the car and kill them both. But it wasn't long before she fell into the buzzing rhythm of the car and the movement. Down the road Mila drove, her jaw dropped and her eyes flittering across the wooded landscape through which they moved. A laugh erupted from her lungs, and she looked over at Chrollo for just a second, as if to say, "Look at me! I can drive!"</p><p>"It's exhilarating, isn't it?" he confirmed, moving back in the seat and resting an arm around her.</p><p>"Like I am flying! Oh, my..."</p><p>"You've got a real knack for it. I nearly crashed my first drive. But, in fairness, the steering wheel on this model is much kinder than that of my father's car."</p><p>"I have spend to much time in cars and never have driven one," she stated, completely slack-jawed.</p><p>"A most miserable way to do things, isn't it?"</p><p>"Certainly." At the feeling of Chrollo's hand wrapping around her shoulder, she smiled. "You said we would have a night on the town, but I am noticing that it is noon, and I do not think I can drive to London without an accident."</p><p>"I'm sure you could—but you're right; we're not headed to town just yet. And I promise I'll be the one driving unless you want to."</p><p>"Then where are we going?"</p><p>"I feel it would spoil the surprise; however, I will ask you to turn left now."</p><p>"There's no road!"</p><p>"Turn anyway."</p><p>"It is just l'herbe—des arbres!"</p><p>He laughed. "Have faith in me, Dear."</p><p>So Mila did as he said and spun the wheel to the left. The car bumped and cranked off of the road and through the grass until Chrollo instructed Mila to pull to a halt, and so she did. After a moment motionless as Mila let herself reel in from shock, she scolded Chrollo and removed herself from the vehicle. Chrollo, likewise, hopped out over the door and swung around to meet her with a basket from the backseat in hand—a fashionable, woven picnic basket.</p><p>The two were before a short, open pasture—but the area in which they directly stood was a grassy spot placed between a small but dense wood and a pond which was so round it almost seemed artificial; however, the rocks and the weeds, as well as the sandbar, scattered around the perimeter indicated otherwise. It was a natural pond, as natural as any, but God decided He wanted this one to be round. Just at the edge of the hill that lead down into the pond, there was a tall tree. It was a weeping willow with strings of green teardrops dripping down its branches and thick roots slouching out of the ground. There was a certain freshness that existed only directly under the tree, as if it was the source of all the good things in the area.</p><p>Mila usually hated willow trees because, though she thought they were lovely, they usually were occupied by thousands of bugs that liked to bite. The chilly air, however, accounted for a severe lack of bugs today, so she didn't mind when Chrollo lay down a blanket beside the upwardly-jutted roots and patted it down for her to sit. She sat, legs flat, spreading her olive dress elegantly, and began to look out to the pond and wait for Chrollo to unload the basket.</p><p>"A picnic?" she asked.</p><p>"Somewhat of a picnic—but call it more of a mid-day snack. Lunch will be had later than usual."</p><p>By and by, after the two snacked on their bread, which had olive oil and a bit of sugar spread across it (and Chrollo had called it a childhood snack), Chrollo also removed from the basket a book. Chrollo slipped his overjacket over Mila's shoulders and lay his head in her lap. Mila made no objections to the act and, rather, welcomed it by removing her glove and beginning to twirl her fingers through his hair. He opened the book, holding it over his face with a tight grip so that it would not fall and smack his nose, and began to read:</p><p>"'It is a truth universally acknowledged that, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.'" He glanced up at her. "What do you say to that, Mimi?"</p><p>"I would say you should keep reading." She chuckled.</p><p>"I would say that it's true—it is a truth universally acknowledged, even now."</p><p>"I believe fortune has no effect on one's desire for love."</p><p>He asked, "So it may be in a man's interest not to get married if wealthy?"</p><p>"The line serves as a beginning for the entire argument of the novel: that class should have no effect on love. A man of fortunate possession should not want a wife because he is in possession of a good fortune, but because he wants love, and that is what the novel explores and serves to prove."</p><p>After a moment of thought, Chrollo hummed. "Insightful."</p><p>"Now hand me that," requested Mila, but she snatched the book from him without patience. She, now, continued to read aloud: "'However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters...'"</p><p>Aloud, Chrollo said, "'My dear Mr. Bennet,' said his lady to him one day, 'have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?'"</p><p>"You have it memorized," noted Mila, almost inquisitively, though aware that he had a photographic memory.</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>"I am impressed. Now, let me read, please."</p><p>"As you wish, Mimi."</p><p>And she did continue to read. One hand held the dark blue, hardcover book at it spine, and the other stayed at Chrollo's head, brushing gently through his scalp. Mila could feel the man in her lap watching her, but she kept her eyes on the page. The only glimpse she had of him was through her peripheral vision, but that wasn't much. His hair was greasy to a magnitude which made it neither grimy nor gross, but rather added softness and richness. She wished to run her fingers though it all day and smell the rising scent of his soap, though Chrollo's scent had been somewhat altered by his week in Manchester and, further, a hospital.</p><p>Chrollo closed his eyes at some point, and by and by Mila paused her reading to look down at him. She was halfway through the seventh chapter of Pride and Prejudice at this time, and she stuck one finger on the thirty-third page and let the book rest beside her legs. And as she sat, she thought about the events which had occured in the past few weeks—the weeks during which she had not seen the companion resting below her.</p><p>The death of Mr. Lawrence had been a shock, of course, and perhaps a trauma in itself; however, what worried Mila most was that she was not as affected by what had occured between the two before his passing.</p><p>In her adolescence, Mila had a schoolfriend—Anaïs, a young woman just a year Mila's junior, but brilliant enough to have been at a university if she could have afforded it—who had been met with a similar issue. Of course, Mila knew at least seven women who'd also faced the issue of sexual violation in their times, but Anaïs's was her first and most profound interaction. It sat in her brain at times when she were idle, perhaps while walking or writing, and each thought of the young girl made Mila's gut wrench.</p><p>Mila recalled what she had heard: that Anaïs had been walking home from school when a friend of her mother's had seen her on the street and invited her in, and it was there that he beat her and violated her, and she was only eleven. Mila never wanted details, but they came through her mother, who had then taken time to give Mila warnings about strangers or people who claim to be friends and that talk (the talk with which all girls are familiarized at an unfortunately young age). That which Mila was certain about was this: Anaïs was never the same thereafter. She did not go out to play; she cried and frowned more than she smiled and laughed; she wore her skirts with longer socks underneath so her ankles would not show, and she took to high-collared shirts and longer sleeves and primmer hairstyles. She never spoke of what happened, not even after the fuss had died down over the rumors, but it was clear to Mila that she was always thinking about it.</p><p>Mila did not have that experience. Hers was painful to think about, but she had things to think about that weren't that. As she sat under that willow tree, she wondered if the lack of severity of her state took away from what happened. Was it a reasonable thing to say she had suffered if she had not felt trauma to Anaïs's magnitude? She shook her head. My experience is my own, and those of other people do not subtract from that. That is what she thought, but she wasn't sure if she believed it. Eventually, she decided to shift the subject in her thoughts and looked down at the man in her lap.</p><p>He hardly looked like the shriveled, withering teenager he had been in the photo on Illumi's wall. Chrollo had gained fat around his face and muscle to his neck. His features were softer, less rocky and rigid, now that he had that extra fat, and it made him look kinder. Chrollo was a kind-looking man, the kind of man where you look at him and form trust immediately. Hisoka was not like this—One had to warm up to the idea of his appearance, but his charm aided—and Illumi was not at all of a trustworthy appearance. She wondered if she was a woman who looked trustworthy.</p><p>Though the week had been riddled with questions about why Chrollo had not told Mila about his addiction in his youth, she realized now that he would have told her if he thought he had to. Perhaps he didn't like to think about it much. Mila didn't like to think about Mr. Lawrence's acts upon her, and that was why she never talked about it. It wasn't her place to assign distrust of herself to Chrollo.</p><p>She smiled as she looked upon him and brushed a hand through the front of his hair. "Tu es une jolie chose pour regarder. Je suis heureuse que tu existe."</p><p>Suddenly, he hummed, eyes still closed. "I'm not sure what you just said, but it was so lovely that I'm not sure I care."</p>
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<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Answers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I thought you were asleep."</p><p>"It was one of those dazes when you're almost asleep until the thing lulling you off disappears," whispered Chrollo, his head in Mila's lap and his eyes shut gently. "You stopped reading."</p><p>Mila raised the book again and moved to open. "Oh, yes, I did... Where was I?"</p><p>"No," Chrollo lifted his hand and gently took the book from her, "you don't have to continue. Would you like to leave now? We've been here for a bit."</p><p>"We do not have to."</p><p>Now, he finally opened his eyes, and within them shined the pale blue sky above. They were a light grey, almost glassy, but their drowsiness combatted that in a way that made them look alive. He had thick, black eyelashes and even thicker eyebrows. Mila set her other hand around his jaw and felt his warm, smooth skin. He had faded scars here and there. </p><p>His hand moved to rest over hers, and he pressed her skin further against his cheek with one eye closed, like a cat being pet on just the right spot on its face. He looked directly at Mila, but not with any sort of eye contact. He was watching her as she watched him, watching how her face twitched as she saw new features and became utterly fascinated with them. Chrollo had never been held like this before Mary-Anne, his ex-fiancée, loved to be held, but she never did the holding, and Chrollo had never had another partner who did either. Under Mila's watch, he suddenly felt safer than he had in a long time. He finally looked into Mila's eyes and noticed that she was leaning down... inching her neck lower. </p><p>"Chrollo," she whispered, gingerly brushing her thumb over his cheek.</p><p>He asked, "Would you like to kiss me, Dear?" </p><p>"If you will allow me."</p><p>He sat up so that her neck would not have to be craned so awkwardly and put his hand on the back of her head. Mila was the one who pulled in further until their lips met. It was a tender kiss, not one of those fiery ones where you're both hot and sweaty and want to take your clothes off. It was the kind of kiss that elderly couples exchange when they think about how long they've had the chance to be happy with one another. A safe and domestic sort of kiss, and Chrollo suddenly realized that he had never wanted anything more in his life than that with Mila. </p><p>When they finally parted, though it wasn't a long kiss, Mila's hands stayed at his cheeks. She kissed underneath his eye and asked, "How furious would you be were I to push you into the lake?" </p><p>"Pardon?" Chrollo huffed, looking over his shoulder and remembering that they were quite close to the slope that led directly into the pond. He turned back to her. "I would be forced to drag you in as well. Let me remind you that it is November—an albeit unseasonably warm November, but November no less, Mimi."</p><p>"A disappointment."</p><p>"But I'll take you hear in the summer and let you push me into the lake as many times as your heart will desire." He then stood and extended his hand to her. "Come on. To London."</p><p>"To London." </p><p>And they arrived in London about an hour later, after a long and rough drive which nearly ended in rainfall, but they managed to dodge the first hit of it. It was perhaps half past three when they stepped into a historical museum with their hats spotted very gently with a sprinkle of rain. They brushed their shoes against the carpet and proceeded to enter the main hall, which was decorated with several murals depicting one historical event or situation after another. Mila and Chrollo intertwined their arms and went for the Early Paleolithic corridor. </p><p>_____</p><p>In the evening, just past dark, the two found themselves in a small bookstore a block away from the museum. They stood in the romance section with careful gazes in search of the L's. Eliot... Ibsen... LaPlante! It was there on the third shelf from the bottom, at Chrollo waistline. He knelt down and slipped one of the two copies out of its little cubby in the shelf and held it up for Mila. With a giggle and a quick glance past the corner of the aisle, she took out a pen, opened the cover, and signed beneath the title page. </p><p>Grinning as she wrote, she read, "I hope this book finds you well and leaves you even better. Mila LaPlante." The book snapped shut, and Mila handed it back to Chrollo.</p><p>Chrollo slid it back into its spot before standing. "Now, is there anything we ought to purchase?"</p><p>"The Liberation of Women is closer to the front."</p><p>"Intruiging. By whom is it written?"</p><p>"Qasim Amin, an Egyptian woman." Mila looked up at him. "But I suppose its only worth is offered to someone with an extensive knowledge on Islam."</p><p>"There's no article before the word, 'knowledge,' just so you know. It's uncountable."</p><p>"Oh, thank you."</p><p>"But, yes, I'm afraid I'm not yet well-versed in world religions."</p><p>"There must always be a starting place, yes?"</p><p>After a moment of thought, he said, "Yes, I suppose that's true," and then he chuckled. "It would certainly add to that exhibit on New Egyptian history."</p><p>"That was marvelous. I'm more of a Pharaonic Era woman myself, but New Egypt is interesting."</p><p>There was a halt in conversation after that. At first, it was not at all uncomfortable, as Mila was then returned to the shelves in search of something she hadn't read—but the lack of response and the sudden heaviness of the air around Chrollo, who stood behind her, made her gulp a bit. She tugged at her collar and turned to him, but he wasn't looking at her. She tried to follow his gaze, looking through the titles in front of him to see if there was anything remarkable or notable on the shelves. Nothing she could see.</p><p>"I wanted to as this most of the night—but I realize there's no proper time and place, so I suppose I ought to ask now." He turned and looked down at her with a smile. "Mila, I'd like to ask if you would like to get married in the future."</p><p>"Americans waste no time, do they?" A laugh slipped out of her lips in shock. "I'm not laughing at your expense—please note. It was the last thing I expected to hear."</p><p>"I understand." He sighed. "I realize this all seems rash—but I know how I feel, and I want to make it clear."</p><p>"I see..."</p><p>"It's just that... your sudden absence last month made me realize how much I value you. I love you, and I wish to be at your side at all times. When I was in that hospital bed, all I wanted was for you to be beside me, Mila. But you don't need to answer now, of course. I'm in no rush, none at all."</p><p>It was an amazing phenomenon to Mila, the fact that she did not feel how she thought she would when proposed to. She'd imagined it before, as most young people do. She imagined the act of her partner getting down upon one knee and introducing to her a ring. The hugging, the kissing, the ecstatic nature of it all. And her heart was pounding, yes, and her cheeks were red, yes—but it was so strange that there was such a lack of excitement. </p><p>Mila wanted to gasp suddenly, but she managed to withhold. She realized it just then and felt so silly. She knew her answer—the answer to all of her questions. Hisoka, Illumi, Chrollo, how they felt about her, how she felt about them. And how silly that she had only now realized it?</p><p>"But I do have my answer."</p>
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<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Me, Myself, I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>
</p><p>4 January 1900<br/>
Hisoka de Moreaux,<br/>
I am writing to you because you are the man whom I know will pass upon me no judgment. I could tell you every horrible thing I've ever done in my life, and I am sure you would tell me not to fret, for all people do horrible things. That is what I'm going to do now. I will now confer to you every horrible thing I have done in the past two weeks. Do not mistake my tone for distress. I am not upset. Rather, I believe I am anxious. I do not expect a reply, only that you fulfill my final request.<br/>
On a side note, I am safe and well. I am at the residence of a friend from the college whose husband is out of town, and she and I are quite enjoying ourselves. We are further into London than you are, but I will ask that you not come to visit.<br/>
<br/>
Chrollo proposed to me in December. We were in a bookstore, and he sprang the offer upon me with no warning. I was surprised and flattered, to say the least. I always imagined a proposal to go differently. I remember thinking about how strange it all seemed to me, the contrast between what was real and what I'd hoped for as a girl. I imagined my partner getting upon one knee, presenting a ring—and, though I don't consider myself a material woman, so the ring is of no true importance, the conventions that exist around proposals exist because they are appealing and romantic. I wished for a more conventional proposal. But, of course, the manner of proposing would have made no difference if it was Chrollo whom I truly loved. But I do not. That is my first horrible thing.<br/>
<br/>
I denied him and asked that he take the carriage to Illumi's alone. I took a street carriage to a hotel and stayed for two nights, during which I requested via telegram that Illumi have my things sent to my hotel. Once they arrived, I left. That is one of the next horrible things which I have done. I should have given more information about my sudden choice to depart from the residence, but I did not.<br/>
<br/>
Illumi and I were on the fast-track toward engagement. We had discussed it earlier in November. I told him I loved him, and that we would try to subside our torment from what once was. I told him I was trying not to love you because I truly felt for him. "There will be time," he told me, and I was sure that there would be. I could teach myself to love him. I think that I was mistaking anger at how he had hurt me when we were eighteen for passion. It is like that heat-of-the-moment feeling wherein you are arguing with a woman and she is so beautiful when her emotions are at their peak, so you kiss her. It doesn't matter if you love her; you feel that rush of passion that makes you feel a need to kiss her—a need to act. Illumi gave me a need to act, but I did not love him either.<br/>
<br/>
As I say this, I will note that this is why I understand that you might not wish to reply to my letter. You are a brilliant man, but I can not love you either. If it were my choice, you would be the man I love, but the timing is horrible. We missed each other by a short window. Hisoka, since we met, you have always made me feel safe. Even in the face of events taking place with Mr. Lawrence, I felt safer with you than any person I know. When you approached me in the kitchen earlier in our stay, providing such a scandalous offer, even though I did not know you well, I felt so very safe. You have been the shoulder upon which I can lean, the man which whom I can laugh, and the person who makes me feel most human. My third horrible thing is telling you that, despite all this, I can not love you; my fourth is leaving you behind.<br/>
<br/>
I thought for a moment that the evening in which I was so badly beaten had not affected me. I was so sure that it did not matter—at least, that is what I was telling myself. I've been trying to deny it. But I also have been looking in the mirror since it happened and feeling the worst wave of shame I have ever felt. I can feel his hands on me still. His hands were so warm, but when I feel it, it's like dark shadows all over—dragging up and down my ribcage, clawing at my neck, gripping my hips. A burning cold sensation, and it hurts! I feel as if something has been taken away from me! Something is missing; it was stolen, and I do not know how to get it back.<br/>
<br/>
Have you ever removed all of your clothes and stepped into the bathroom mirror at three in the morning and asked yourself, "Who am I?" Have you ever seen yourself in the mirror and been unable to even recognize your own body? I did that the night before Chrollo proposed. I felt so used that my body didn't even feel like my own. That was what made me realize that I could not marry anyone—not Chrollo, not you, not Illumi. How could I marry someone when I do not even know who I am? How could I bring in a new piece of my life when I have just lost ten? I can not. My fifth horrible thing is that I did not realize it sooner.<br/>
<br/>
I am separating myself from this part of my life—the past few months. I am not forgetting it. I am acknowledging that, in order to move on, the best thing is to physically separate myself. I am arranging a move to Manchester. Last week, I spoke with a publishing agent from the Manchester branch of my publishing company; I have made correspondence with a woman looking to sell her home, and I have made a transfer to another university in the area. I am leaving London, and I want you to know this about me. I am going to do what I want to do. I will garden in my home, and I will sleep on silk sheets, and I will try to repair the damages—to find what has been lost.<br/>
<br/>
I ask that, even if you think ill of me for this decision, you not tell me so. There is guilt, but I know that I can not feel guilty anymore. I cannot feel guilty for making the choices that I need to make—not for denying Chrollo's proposal, for leaving on such short notice, for not being able to love you. And, secondly, I ask that you explain to Illumi and Chrollo the reason for my disappearance. You may tell them only about Mr. Lawrence, or you may read this entire letter out loud to them. Finally, I ask that you not try to reach me. I will reach out when and if I am ready.<br/>
<br/>
I hope I, by now, have made my romantic decisions and intentions clear. I am not choosing you, nor Illumi, nor Chrollo. I am choosing in redamancy—the act of loving in return—and so I am loving myself for nothing in return. I cannot believe how silly I was for not realizing it until Chrollo proposed: the answer to all of the questions I had been asking were right in front of me. Who was I truly in love with? Which man was best for me?<br/>
<br/>
The answer is me. I am choosing me, myself, and I—because I am my priority, and I must heal, and I must learn to love me.<br/>
<br/>
Thank you for being my friend, my companion, my lover, and my confidant. Thank you for sheltering me in your home and for being my home. Thank you for allowing me to look into your past in Moreaux, and for allowing me to love you. I hold for you a special place in my heart and must now bid you 'adieu.'</p><p>          Yours, truly,<br/>
Mila LaPlante</p><p><br/>
</p><p>_____</p><p>Hisoka set the letter down and, with his handkerchief, dabbed his cheeks dry. He was seated in the foyer of his townhome with his reading glasses in hand and his beard unshaved. The fire crackled in the pit before him, warming the drafty room. He looked out the window and scanned the dark, snowy street. It had been snowing for days. </p><p>He decided he would tell Chrollo and Illumi the news tomorrow: Mila was out of their lives, possibly never to return. Illumi would shelter and isolate himself for a few days; Chrollo would be more hurt by Mila's denial of his proposal than her disappearance. Hisoka knew why Chrollo proposed. He liked a challenge, and Mila was a challenge if there ever was one. But they would all be alright. Everyone would be fine. And Hisoka... all he needed to know was that Mila would be okay. Hisoka pictured Mila in his head. Where was she now? He imagined her in front of a mirror, examining herself and trying to refamiliarize herself with her body. He hoped she was pointing at each feature and saying—no, screaming:</p><p>"I love you! I love you! I love you!"</p><p>In the end, he knew, that was all she deserved. </p><p>He said it out loud once in the empty room. And then he heard the sound echo back.</p>
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<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Afterword</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sexual Assault Help Lines<br/>U.S.A.: 1 (800)-656-4673<br/>U.K.: 01708 765200</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I began writing Redamancy shortly after seeing the film, Coco Chanel (2008), in school. The movie was about how Chanel, the designer, began to make her way in the fashion industry through hatting; it also follows her intense but ultimately tragic relationship with her lover, Boy Capel. The idea which the movie gave me was just one clear image: a woman living in an old manor while grappling with ruthless creativity. Mila was created with this kind of image in mind. She was, to me, a fierce picture of a woman trying to do her best in a world completely against her. It's a well-known fact that all odds for success were against the women of the Victorian era. I wanted a character that defied those odds with just a drive, no special abilities. That being said, the concept of the Mary-Sue is one I'm always trying to evade and constantly worrying about producing, so I used this idea for a character to try and really flesh out a genuinely relatable human people could read about. However, moving further into the story allowed me to realize that not only is every main character going to be (to some extent) a Mary-Sue, but also that this is completely fine. Characters can be remarkable. And, to me, the remarkable thing about Mila is that she is unremarkable. She is nothing special; she is a hard-working woman with a few talents, a few interests, and a need to be loved. She is relatable and human and fleshed-out, but that all makes her spectacular and interesting.</p><p>The ideas of romance and, by extension, a love triangle were thrown in when I realized just how appealing it was to transplant Illumi, Chrollo, and Hisoka into a Victorian setting. At first, I didn't really intend to have Chrollo and Hisoka thrown into the mix; I wanted to focus only on Illumi and Mila. But I liked how this strong woman interacted with the three characters and wanted to experiment with their relationships a bit. After a few drafts, I decided to expand the scope of Mila's romantic interests to the other two and used them as a way to fulfill different facets of romantic desire; Hisoka has a duality of sexual tension and platonic safety; Chrollo was the fun and the laughter that keeps a relationship healthy; Illumi was the passion that keeps love in motion and prevents it from fading.</p><p>I tried my best to appeal to the canon personalities of these characters. This was a challenge because of how all three are painted as either villains or anti-heroes in Hunter x Hunter. But the parts I pulled away came together to create what I think is a very accurate depiction of each character. Chrollo is a charming, somewhat closed-off man who appeals to the kind nature of people. Illumi is isolated and owns a superiority complex relating to his status. Hisoka is fun and somewhat peculiar in an off-putting (yet attractive) way. The best part of stripping them down to their essences was adding my own depth to these characters—their interests, hobbies, careers, backstories...</p><p>Illumi's character was especially fun to craft because of how, despite his coldness, he truly wants to be around people; I think that it's fitting that, because of the way he was raised, he doesn't know how to express his affection outside of gifts in the first portion of the book. His growth as a character is also a sweet thing because he removes himself from that classism we see during his and Mila's first interactions. Though he did not always view class in this way (as a teenager, he didn't really understand the concept, hence his relationship with Mila at the time), Illumi immediately takes lead in the story as a clashing character on the basis of his status versus Mila's; she's not poor but certainly doesn't associate with wealth, and Illumi only knows wealth and thinks himself better for it. As we move through the story, Mila acts as a driving force for Illumi's deconstruction of how he views class, class culture, and class differences, and that was an incredibly complex but also intriguing thing to work through as the author of this work. And, with that, the discussion of social issues in a period where social justice was rolling down the runway was even more interesting because I, as a member of the LGBT community, got to take a dichotomous view of social justice. What kind of differences existed between the issues such as class, sexism, and homosexuality a hundred years ago and today? That is a question that I wanted to sort of analyze and shed light upon—possibly in the hopes of highlighting the progress we've made in the last hundred years. We all know how easy it is to think that things will never change, but the differences from now and a century ago are present. I would have liked to make more of a plot out of both concepts, but in writing this I placed more focus on the characters with the assumption that my readers were here for romance and not for social justice—which is completely reasonable. However, I might not make the same mistake next time I go to write a piece with social justice topics. </p><p>I did not expect to end the book the way I did. I planned to have three different endings in which Mila chose Chrollo, Illumi, and Hisoka, respectively. This seemed fitting for a fanfiction in which there are multiple love interests, since the reader wants to have that choice in who ends up with whom. It's our nature in reading self-insertion pieces. We want the character, whom we see as ourselves, to be with who we like. But, halfway through writing, I realized that this wasn't self-insertion for me. I was interested in Mila and wanted to see her go down the path that was best for her; if it had been me, I would have chosen Hisoka in this particular piece, and if I were to write a sequel, it would be centered around that relationship. But the trauma Mila faced in being sexually assaulted reminded me that healing is always the priority. Mila was not ready for romance; it would have hurt her more than it would have helped her. I am also a rape survivor, so this story was personal and, at times, difficult to write; ultimately, creating an ending where the main character is given the healthiest opportunity in the face of sexual assault possible was important to me. As a matter of fact, I think that this realization in writing this piece has brought me to a point where I also want to shift my focus onto my own healing process, and part of me hopes that any other survivors reading this might also take that perspective. Healing from sexual trauma is a constant and tiring process, and it's a scary thing to start working toward; it's scary enough to make you think that maybe you don't want to heal... Through Mila's journey, I hope to convey that, despite how scary it is, healing is the most important thing to do and should come before running away—which meant, in Mila's case, choosing a man she didn't truly love.</p><p>This has been my favorite work to write since I began writing fanfiction. The setting and the characters were fantastic for experimenting, and the dated language allowed me to play with personal voice and stylistic narration. My favorite example is how Mila never uses contractions (unless in French), adding a sort of clunkiness to the speech that is characteristic of people speaking anything as a second language. I enjoyed exploring the dramatic aspects of activism at the Victorian era and researching the sociopolitical context for the United Kingdom. I am not British, so this was a challenge, but I believe I met it well. </p><p>A huge thank you to my supporters: all of you who have stuck with this work despite my hiatuses. I write because I love to write, but I publish because you all love to read. A special thank you to anyone and everyone who interacted with me personally or the work itself—via either voting/giving kudos, commenting, following/subscribing, or private messaging. Please never underestimate the magnitude of interacting with your creators; it is, in the most literal sense, what keeps me and many others at work. I hope you all will continue to interact with me—especially here, in this note! I would love to hear your thoughts on the characters, my inspiration, my process. I hope this was as much of a joy to read as it was to write.</p><p>If you haven't already, please follow to keep in touch with me and my works. And, again, thank you, my indelible friends.</p><p>-Maria, they/them</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This work was reposted on Archive of Our Own from my original account: @ErwinsRightEyebrow on Wattpad. Any account posting my content on any site besides ErwinsRightEyebrow on Wattpad or Archive of Our Own is plagiarizing.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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